Sinner's Prayer
by Reina de Fuego
Summary: Gunnar's never been one to complain, but outsourcing for a translator? Then he meets their new coworker. Belle's angry and fresh from prison, and what is it about her that makes Crankenstein want to play? The last thing Barney needs is the team compromised, but the past seems determined to free the skeletons from their closets and none of them are ready for that, especially Gunnar.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** There will be mentions of suicide, the aftermath of suicide, rape/its aftermath, mental and physical abuse, torture, and gaslighting, throughout the fic.

If you'd like specific warnings before I post individual chapters, PM me and I'll accommodate as best I can.

* * *

"So you two broke up," Tool said, glancing up from her leg. Now that she'd come out of hiding, he could finish the detail on the raven's head. Everything but a few feathers was done for the custom job he'd happily never do again. Cowboy hat hanging against his back, his hair was tied back and he'd ditched his vest. Sweat beaded on Tool's nose and clung to his chest hairs, the humidity all too apparent even with four pedestals and two ceiling fans going. "Shame losing a beautiful woman like that."

She sighed and nodded, reaching down and grabbing a partially frozen bottle of water. Isabelle took a sip before holding it out to Tool who just shook his head. The hum of the needle gun was relaxing, a dull buzz she hadn't heard in years and didn't plan to again. Two tattoos were enough for her. Turning her body into a walking canvas how Tool had his wasn't her style. "Once her father died, that was it. The romance fizzled last year but I think we both stuck around for the sex."

Tool chuckled. _It's always the sex._ He understood the sentiment — maybe if you slept with someone enough times you'd find that spark again, but it never worked. At least not in his experience. "What kind of job you looking for now?"

"Something easy. Translator, preferably."

She hadn't told him the truth about where she'd been the past four years, or what'd happened. So long as he kept believing the lies she wove, there was no need to make things complicated by trying to explain the truth. As far as Tool was aware, she'd been living in her villa just forty minutes from Bordeaux since the 'bad breakup' five years ago. The money was starting to run out and she needed more, or so she'd told him.

"You got enough clothes for a two month holiday?"

"Depends where I'm going."

"Russia," Barney said, buttoning up his shirt as he entered from the garage and walked towards Tool. He noted Isabelle on the chair, a pair of black wrap-around sunglasses concealing her eyes, and right leg propped up so Tool could get easier access to her outer thigh. "Swaziland, possibly. Wherever this son of a bitch goes while we hunt him. You said you're looking for work as a translator?"

She nodded and stayed reclined on the seat, left fingers curled around the small ceramic shiv in her pocket. In this heat, anything thicker than cotton was going to cause problems, and she didn't want to feel restricted by her clothes. After years of wearing a tight jumpsuit, having the freedom to move was refreshing. Her white wifebeater revealed thin arms that should've been thicker with muscle, and the words 'oderint dum metuant' were tattooed along the inside of her left wrist in black ink. Translated into English, the tattoo read: _let them hate, so long as they fear._ "I am. Forgive me, who are you?"

"Barney Ross." He extended a hand towards her but she made no move to receive it, left hand in her pocket and right holding a bottle of water. Barney dropped his arm a moment later and planted his ass on a chair, getting comfortable as he waited for the others to finally arrive. Doc was coming in his '49 plum purple Pontiac convertible, Lee was trying to placate Lacy's concerns, and the others had rung up to say they'd be there when they got there.

She set the bottle down then reached up and nudged her sunglasses down, revealing one eye and —

 _Jesus fucking Christ!_ Barney remained composed, meeting her gaze and refusing to look away. There was fire in her eye, a fierce raw unbridled hatred. A look he guessed was directed at him. Someone who could wear a mask like that day after day wasn't someone he wanted standing behind him with a gun, but if she could do the job, that was all he needed. "Your leg. IED?"

From the top of her right shin down, it was titanium: a fine piece of work he'd never quite learn to appreciate unless he lost his own leg. If she could lose part of her leg, her entire left eye, and still walk into Tool's wanting a job, perhaps he wouldn't have to ring around and find a translator on short notice.

"Landmine, luckily." An IED probably would've turned her into mince meat.

"Ouch."

"It's the risk you take, right?" Isabelle kept her cool, his name rattling around in her head as she let go of the shiv and waited for Tool to lean back before she sat up. She'd never dreamt in a million years that she'd find herself opposite him, yet there he sat. Was it karma paying her for the past few years, kismet, or dumb luck? If not for Tool's presence, her shiv would've been buried in his carotid the moment he'd identified himself. She slid her sunglasses off and tucked them in her pocket, revealing the full extent of the scars around her left eye socket. "Mind if we finish it later, T?'

Tool nodded and turned the gun off before he stood and stretched. He cracked his neck then peeled his shirt off and used it to wipe his face and pits. He took a whiff of himself before crinkling his nose. Definitely couldn't have Cheyenne coming home and finding him smelling like Barney or he'd be made to sleep in the bathroom. "There's just some fine details I want to ink again on the girl's face, then it's done. I'm gonna take a shower, alright? Play nice."

"I always play nice," Barney said, feigning offense.

"I know you do. _She_ doesn't."

 _Can't argue with that._ When had she ever played by the rules? Isabelle chuckled and smiled as she leaned down, looking at the details on the feathers of the raven's head. The Day of the Dead girl was missing her left eye and clutched the bleeding dismembered head of a raven in her right hand. At twenty three, she'd walked into Tool's shop and asked him to sketch out a design she had in her head. He'd come recommended and hadn't failed to impress. His work was excellent, but no one in their right mind expected any less from the Yoda of New Orleans. He was the best tattooist this side of the Warehouse District. If a mercenary needed advice or a job, they always found their way to his shop.

"Work hard to come by in France?" Barney said, pulling his chair closer. It was either that, Canada, or Belgium. Best to go with the easier option that wouldn't cause outright offence. That fire had dimmed in her eye, but it still burned beneath the surface. Tool's saying she didn't play nice allowed for two options: either she had a tendency to go rogue, or she _was_ a rogue asset.

Isabelle shrugged and let her ponytail out before fixing it up in a bun, making sure her fringe was pulled back as well and her socket on full display. Bruises at least a few days old marred her legs and arms, and more purple-black bruises partially encircled her wrists. If she lifted her shirt, there'd be scars and bruises revealed on her ribs, stomach, and back. She flinched as she pushed off the chair and straightened herself out, pulling away when Barney moved to touch her arm.

Physical contact was going to be an issue for a while if the past three days were any clue. When Tool tried to hug her and welcome her back to the States, she'd recoiled and nearly thrown him into the floor. Luckily he wasn't the type to take offence at an unintentional slight. At the transit hub, wherever she'd been, she resigned herself to standing outside in the rain rather than sit next to her fellow passengers.

"You good?" Barney said, noticing how she moved to avoid him. The bruises around her wrists looked like someone had gripped her tightly and thrown her around a few times. Her omission of a name hadn't gone unnoticed, but Ross let it slide for now. She still hadn't said whether she was taking the job or not, nor had he stated if he'd hire her.

"I'm fine," she said, fetching her backpack. Isabelle made for the service elevator, the weight of the shiv in her pocket a reminder she would have a chance to defend herself, and Tool's presence drilled home the fact the parlour was a safe haven. It was meant to be anyhow. _They can't find you here._ "Just need something to eat."

Less than ninety-six hours ago, she'd woken up in a motel room. According to the manager, a bald asshole in a suit had paid for the room. After that, she found a set of clothes hanging in the bathroom. Sitting on cold tiles for an hour, she scrubbed every inch of her body under a scalding hot shower before finally getting dressed. Isabelle broke into a room two doors down once it was after midnight, stole some tourist's backpack and loose change then headed for the nearest payphone. Her first call was to Tool, the second to an offshore automated bank service that would transfer some of her emergency funds to her main account. She bought a bus ticket that day and immediately headed for Louisiana.

 **x - x - x**

Barney gave no reply, instead he walked straight through the side door and into the garage. Large gas bottles were propped up against the right wall near the large roller door, the word 'empty' spray-painted above them. Tool still hadn't learned the art of organisation after all these years, regardless of that beauty in chaos bullshit. The sound of an old engine rumbled outside, followed by the roar of multiple hogs. _It's about damn time._

He busied himself with collecting oil-stained rags Tool had left lying around and dumping them in a bucket to be washed another day. Barney glanced up from the main workbench as his team parked their bikes out of the way and forced a smile when Lee slid his helmet off. "Tool's upstairs taking a shower. Might be leaving sooner than we think."

"Tool's coming with us?" Lee said, raising an eyebrow. Odd, he didn't normally come along on any missions. So far as Lee could remember, he never had. Tool was retired, Barney said, but it didn't mean he wouldn't ever pick up a pistol again.

"No. Potential translator's here."

"I told you my Russian is fine," Gunnar snapped, hanging his helmet off the handle of his bike. He was better than fine and Barney knew it, but the bastard still outsourced. Eastern Europe was his speciality, something he took pride in seeing as half his team were incompetent. "So's Doc's Swazi 'n' Swahili."

"I said potential," Barney snapped right back. "I didn't say I was hiring her, she's just an option."

"Since when the hell do you let a woman join the team?" Doc said, leaning against a bench and crossing his arms. He eyed Barney suspiciously, trying to read his face, searching for any sign that this translator was the elusive Maggie whom Christmas had mentioned the other night. All he knew was a) she was drop dead gorgeous, and b) Barney was head over heels for the woman — those two qualifications alone made her a viable addition to the team. "Is it Maggie?"

"No, it's not Maggie. She'll be meeting us at the airfield."

Of course she was. Lee shook his head at the way Barney's eyes lit up at the mere mention of her. What had begun as simple flirtation and admiration had turned their leader into a full-on high school boy with a crush on the hot cheerleader. He understood the sentiment, however. Maggie certainly brought some colour to Barney's black heart. "So what's her name?"

Barney shrugged. "She didn't say."

"You been smoking something other than Cubans lately, Barney?" Doc queried. For all they knew, this mystery woman of Barney's was just a hallucination induced by magic mushrooms, or LSD-tainted cigars. Doc tilted his head back and sniffed the air then pushed off the bench and walked into the shop, going straight for the stairwell that led upstairs. It smelt like Tool was cooking something good, a spicy savoury smell that had him salivating as he took the stairs one at a time. Taking a shower while the stove was on wasn't something even he did, but then Tool was pretty blasé about walking around buck-ass naked in his own house.

"What languages does she speak?" Gunnar said.

Barney rolled his eyes. If this turned into a dick waving contest, he was going to have a problem on his hands because _she_ , whatever her damn name was, did not look to be in the mood for any kind of contest. Nor did he fancy witnessing Gunnar strut around like a puffed-up peacock trying to prove who had the bigger IQ. "You can ask her yourself. She's upstairs."

Lee waited until Gunnar went to catch up with Doc before approaching Barney. He knew that look well. Barney was as uneasy as they were, and if he said the mission was a no go, then they'd be stuck in New Orleans for another month. All he wanted to do was get away from the neighbours and their fucking dinner parties, the ones Lacy dragged him to that he always ended up slipping away from. No one noticed he was gone half the time anyway, until Lacy found him sitting on the steps of their house spinning a blade on his finger. "So this woman's real, yeah?"

Barney nodded. "She's missing an eye and a third of her leg."

"Uh-huh." Of course she was real. If she looked as bad as Lee pictured in his mind, this was going to be a field day. Usually anyone Tool threw their way was completely intact, so how the fuck would they operate with someone who was apparently half blind? Lee shook his head in disbelief, wondering how they'd fallen so far. First they'd lost Billy, then Barney had kicked their arses to the kerb and hired young guns — as if that hadn't been a reality check — and now he was hiring wounded vets. "If we get killed, it's on you."

"It's on Tool, you mean."

"Same difference. So Maggie's definitely coming?"

"Church wants her to babysit us." Barney learnt to stop asking questions about how the Agency operated when Drummer showed up instead of Church. There was no point wasting breath if it wouldn't get him anywhere.

"We don't need a babysitter."

"You think I didn't tell him that?"

"Hey, Caesar." Barney nodded to the huge black guy just as he and Yang walked in, followed by Toll in a still-fucking-ugly denim jacket. "Might be leaving in two days, so make sure you're packed."

"I thought we were chasing a guy," Toll said. "Shouldn't we be leaving tonight?"

"You think too much," Yang said. "It's all covered, the plan is good."

Lee scoffed. Barney didn't plan, he improvised. "What plan?"

 **x - x - x**

Isabelle grunted and slammed the cabinet door shut before she reached to her left and felt for a parmesan cheese rind. The damn overhead cabinets stuck out too far, and if you didn't duck or move out of range. you'd find yourself with a lump on your head. Worse, they were still far too low. Another foot higher would've been perfect, but Tool refused to renovate the kitchen. She lifted the pot lid, tossed the rind in, then dropped the lid suddenly and splattered near-boiling liquid on her hand and arm. "Fuck!"

Stabbing pain radiated from her stomach as Belle gripped the counter, breathing through the sharp pains that threatened to tear her body apart. The hunger pangs would subside once she ate something, and then she'd be locked away in the bathroom as her stomach reacted to the sudden change in diet.

"Chére, you need a hand?" Tool called out from his bedroom.

"Non, merci," she said through gritted teeth. Isabelle found a tea towel and wiped her arm before tossing it on the bench and fetching a bag of mixed seafood from the fridge. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps and shrugged it off as Tool getting dressed, only to hear a door creak followed by _two_ sets of squeaking footsteps. As much as she wanted to rip up the hideous striped linoleum floor without telling Tool, it certainly came in handy when two someones were coming out of nowhere.

Isabelle quickly slid her wrap-arounds on and kept cooking, pretending to be focused while she listened for more footsteps. The shades both concealed her injury and partially hid the scars that remained. Most of the scars were from the surgery, a few from her own attempted removal of the then compromised eye.

"Can I help you two?" she called out, turning the gas stove off and fetching a bowl. A slight tremor affected her hands as she began loading her dinner onto a tray, heart rate increasing along with the frequency of the tremors. A chill ran down her spine as uncomfortable silence fell over the upper floor, the footsteps falling silent as suddenly as they began. She couldn't even hear Tool now, just the blood rushing to her head and a quiet voice in the back of her mind that told her to run.

There was always two. Sometimes three. One to watch the door and one to have his way, then they'd swap. The third would find other ways to amuse themself.

 _You're safe,_ she reminded herself, finding the ladle and quickly serving herself from the remains of Tool's soup. She hadn't heard them coming upstairs. The stairs hadn't creaked and there was no noise from the lift. How had they gotten up here without her knowing?

She never heard them coming. They were always silent one minute and there the next. Torturers moving in the shadows and never showing their faces. Men without souls who only cared about one thing: tearing her apart physically, then psychologically.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Just looking for Tool," Gunnar said, glancing over the paint job in progress. The peach-coloured walls were as ugly as Barney naked — not that he'd willingly expose himself to such a horror, but if Tool liked it, who was he to complain? None of them had to live here except him, and if one of them ever slipped through the cracks, it was doubtful any of them would willingly reside here even then. "And a beer."

He looked over his shoulder at Doc before continuing to walk down the short hallway that led to the kitchen. All he'd heard was a southern French accent, probably from Nouvelle-Aquitane. The voice itself was feminine, with an underlying harshness. Unless Tool was fucking with them, Barney's mystery woman seemed like she might be real. Jensen focused on the sudden rapid heavy footsteps. Sure, he weighed two hundred pounds but he knew how to move quietly and so did Doc. Tool? Highly unlikely, unless he'd gained more weight.

Gunnar reached for his Bowie knife and unsheathed it, listening for any sound that would tip them off if Tool's translator was about to shoot at them. Mystery women were a rare occurrence here. French women even more so. There was something familiar about her voice that made him hesitate, a wavering fear he hadn't heard in so long.

"Beer's in the fridge, Tool's in his room."

"Uh, thanks."

Their footsteps drew closer as she hauled ass, refusing to look over her shoulder and waste the few seconds headstart she had. Isabelle walked into the small bedroom Tool designated hers and pushed the door shut with her foot, breathing heavily as she set the tray down on a wooden dresser by the door. Sweat trickled down her neck and soaked into her wifebeater, turning the shirt more transparent. Her heart was pounding, slamming against her ribcage, trying to flee faster than she could. The tremor in her hands interfered with her turning the lock, but seconds later she managed to push it to the right and hear it click before her legs gave way.

Isabelle collapsed against the door and slid down, sunglasses falling into her lap and wifebeater riding up. She could still hear footsteps, _growing louder and closer with each second. A heavy metal door creaked, signalling impending pain. Sunlight flooded the room and warmed her skin, but she couldn't move, couldn't feel. Most of her senses had stopped functioning. Something was wrong, and all she could do was lay there and listen._

 _"Think she's awake?"_

 _"She's been doped up on xylazine, bitch won't know up from down."_

Isabelle nicked her leg with the shiv, the stinging pain pulling her out of her head and forcing her to focus on the present. _You need to eat,_ she reminded herself. _Pick up the pieces and keep moving._ It was something her boss had said a few weeks after her eye had been destroyed. He'd told her no matter how much pain she was in, she needed to pull her shit together, pick the pieces up, and keep fighting. The world she'd joined was harsh, and it didn't give second chances to the weak, injured, or dying.

Nor did he.

He sympathised, he cared — he had a daughter, he had feelings, he reminded her — but the job came first. Survival of the fittest, strongest, and the rich, was how her new world operated.

"Fight or die, Isabelle," she murmured, resting her head against her knees as a few stray tears mixed with the sweat on the left side of her face. There was nowhere else to go now. Any headstart she'd had was used up. Once they found her, it wouldn't take long before she was dragged back to that hole kicking and screaming. "Fight or live in fear for the rest of your miserable life."

* * *

 **A/N:** I hope you enjoyed the first chapter!

The lines about dinner parties/Lee walking out and no one noticing was taken from a scene in The Expendables 3 Working Draft script dated 22 July '13.


	2. Chapter 2

Tool dropped the two-inch-thick folder down on the coffee table and the loud bang drew everyone's attention. He adjusted the angle of his cowboy hat and fell back onto the couch. The sooner they were confident in the mission's execution, the faster Barney could do the job and come home. "If this doesn't go to plan, you're gonna be in it for the long haul."

The target, Amil Neban, had a record miles long, and blacker than Barney's heart. If it was even half true, the team would require an armoured trojan horse. This wouldn't be like Mogadishu where they'd walked in and lain in wait for Minns, a.k.a Stonebanks, ready to shoot and flee; and in comparison to Stonebanks, Amil was a whole other kind of crazy.

He tortured his men to divide the weak from the strong, trafficked people for those who could pay, dealt arms in any country that would turn a blind eye, and shipped drugs for the cartels. There was also the laundering money for the various mobs. Somehow his neutrality had kept him alive, ensuring his continued existence amidst the constant rivalries between gangs, mobs, and cartels. Unfortunately that neutrality had now garnered him the attention of the Agency.

"You got a better plan than guns blazing?" Tool said, looking warily at Barney. That'd been all well and good with Vilain, but a different kind of approach was required now.

"I've got it covered, Tool."

For some reason, that wasn't as reassuring as it sounded.

Barney propped his feet up on the table and took another sip of his beer, cradling the ice cold brew in one hand and thumbing his phone in the other. _Still no reply._ Tool had faith in him alright, but the hint was there: don't fuck up, and don't get killed. They'd lost too many brothers over the years. His team was relying on him to help keep them alive, to bring them back home to their families.

Tool cracked open the file and laid out the blurry photos provided. These were the best the Agency could get: the side of someone's face, a woman exiting a vehicle with a man in a suit, and a partial license plate. Every undercover operative sent in was killed and their body dumped in the ocean. Any CCTV-enabled camera and traffic camera in a twenty mile radius of the target's location rendered useless. Whoever 'Amil Neban' was, they had mastered the art of covering their tracks.

Completing the mission in Church's two month time slot would be a feat in and of itself. They were chasing a ghost who could walk through walls and disappear underground in the time it took them to load a gun. There was no certified photo of Amil, nothing to verify their potential target was the correct one. All they had to go on was a continuing game of Chinese Whispers.

Tool glanced up, listening out for the lift's gears moving, but still it remained silent. If she'd been walking, he would've heard her footsteps. Belle'd gone inside her room two hours ago and hadn't come out since. Even he knew what that meant: private time for the lady before she came out with a hatchet and smashed down doors looking for Barney. He'd never known there was such raw hatred inside her, but he couldn't say it surprised him. Ross had refused to hire her on the spot and that'd piss anyone off who was in need of cash. "What're you gonna do for a translator?"

"Doc speaks Swazi. Gunnar speaks Russian."

Tool rolled his eyes. Ross knew what he meant. Seven men wasn't enough. The last time there'd been uneven numbers, Caesar had been shot. Even when it'd been him, Stonebanks, Barney, Doc, and Trench, they'd gone looking for a sixth member immediately. Someone to cover Trench's back so he wouldn't get shot when they weren't looking. "She needs the money."

Barney shrugged. It wasn't his problem now. He sympathised with the woman's predicament, but people who could allow themselves to fall into a hole were certainly capable of pulling themselves out. "There are other jobs."

"Call me when you two kiss and make up, huh?" Gunnar said, standing and stretching. He needed to get some fresh air. Sitting around with them complaining about the humidity and the lack of work would drive anyone nuts. Having to see Barney without his shirt and all those scars was also driving him to hurl. He didn't want to look anything like that by the time he hit sixty. "I'm gonna go meet Casey. See you at the hangar in the morning."

"I said two days, Gunnar."

Right. Barney was really going to waste a whole two days when he could get to Russia, get the job done and go home within a week. The easiest missions were never worth the fuel, so they always held out for a good payday that'd cover them for a few years longer. Living in comfort was easy once they all had sizable bank balances. Ever since the drama in Azmenistan, he'd adopted a 'me vs. the world' mentality. If no one could get past the walls Gunnar put up around himself, he wouldn't find himself ever caught between choosing his personal life or his work. "Uh-huh."

"We leaving in the morning, Barney?" Lee said. Resting in his lap, the screen flashed again and his phone vibrated. Lacy was calling for the third time in the past hour. It was probably a light bulb, or a farewell veritably late dinner. The last time she hadn't heard from him for longer than three weeks, he'd arrived home to find Lacy's new 'friend' in the space reserved for him. Christmas wasn't the jealous type, but one month? She hadn't even given him a chance to come home before moving on. Thank God that nightmare was over. Seeing Lacy with that bruise on her face had brought out a darkness he usually kept locked up and buried.

"Yeah," he said, resigning himself to a shit night's sleep. His head would pound in the morning when he was behind the wheel, but Lee could always fly. Barney sighed and looked at Tool, unable to avoid making eye contact. None of them understood how Tool could give them one look and guilt trip them into being wrapped around his finger, but it happened. When it was be either his bitch or Church's, the man he could trust won out every time. "Fine. Tell your translator that takeoff is at midday."

"And the pay?"

"Fifty." He wasn't going to pay someone he didn't know or trust their fair share until they'd proved themselves. Regardless of Tool's assurances, he wanted to know they'd finish the mission and make it home alive first before anyone got paid. Barney finished off his beer and dumped it in the trash while Gunnar wheeled his bike out and took off, followed by Lee. Hopefully everyone would have their shit sorted by midday tomorrow, himself included.

Fifty would have to do. He'd throw her ten grand from his expenses account if needed, but the stick lodged in Barney's ass was secured with superglue. Ever since Stonebanks' Christ-like resurrection and proceeding death, Barney had stopped allowing himself to trust anyone outside his already small circle of friends. He no longer went on dates, stopped picking up women at bars and bringing them back to his apartment — or Tool's shop — and Tool hadn't seen him do a proper grocery run in two months. Hell, Ross was beginning to look a little worn-out and faded, as if someone had stolen his sense of humour and was draining the life from him.

Another uneasy fifteen minutes passed mostly in awkward silence, during which Toll Road left on his bike and Caesar soon followed, leaving Doc, Yang, Tool and himself downstairs. Cheyenne came home early and crashed on Tool's bed, looking rather pissed off and tired. According to her, the manager's hands had gone wandering and found their way up her skirt, so she proceeded to politely slam his head down onto the bar and make sure he knew where his hands belonged.

"So what is the plan?" Doc said, yawning as he unrolled a sleeping bag and proceeded to lay it out on the floor. Unless he wanted to cuddle up close to Yang, he'd be sleeping on the floor with his backpack as a pillow. It was also comfier than fighting for room with someone who was all knees and elbows. Yang was short, lanky, and built for agility, not brute strength. "Well?"

"There's some philanthropy thing happening in Moscow. Church says the target should be there. If they are, snatch and grab. If not, we'll start tracking them the old fashioned way," Barney said, rubbing his jaw. Six weeks worth of stubble now lived untended on his face, leaving him looking like an old wrinkled billy goat. He'd be forced to clean up his image if they were to go to this event, with all its black tie glamour and upper-class snobbery.

 _If_ being the operative word.

 **x - x - x**

"Philanthropy thing?"

A pair of ugg boots Cheyenne had loaned her muffled Belle's footsteps on the polished concrete floor. A lush royal purple bathrobe went down to her ankles, wrapping her in warmth and soft Egyptian cotton. It also concealed her legs and the pistol strapped to her right thigh as insurance. Isabelle clutched a bottle of 1989 Pinot Noir from Burgundy, France, in one hand, and a wine glass in the other, two fingers hooked around the stem. This was the real shit Tool bragged about owning, one of the many bottles she'd sent him over the years in an attempt to sway him from drinking only beer. "T, you mind if I —"

"You bought it, chère," Tool said, sliding across the couch. He figured she probably didn't want to put up with Sweaty McStinkpits sitting there without his shirt, or Yang's own b.o. They all needed showers, but Tool wouldn't be the first to admit they'd all become slightly lazy and comfortable in their years of being a generally men only group. "This is Yang," Tool gestured, "Barney you've already met, and Death."

"Doctor Death, thank you, or Doc for short. I don't fuck your name up, Toad," Doc said with a scoff as he tucked one arm under his head. She went straight for the empty chair Gunnar had vacated, all five eight of her in that stupid robe with a T embroidered on the left breast. Of course Tool had a fucking robe with his initial on it, the rich fucker probably had slippers too and a box of Cuban cigars tucked away somewhere so he could lounge around and pretend he was living it up. The woman avoided eye contact with all of them until after she cracked open the bottle of wine and poured herself half a glass, tucking her feet under her and leaning back on the chair. "You got a name, or are you some kind o' Cher impersonator?"

"Isabelle," she muttered, taking a sip. Alcohol wasn't her thing, but that false sense of strength it would give her for the next hour or so would be much needed. She also just wanted something to focus on other than the fear, and the knots that'd formed in her stomach over the past few hours. Sitting on the bed with a pistol in her hand, she'd visualised herself putting bullets in their heads. Wrestling a gun free from _them_ and escaping before things became as horrible as they had. Unfortunately this was her reality. "Are they your team?"

Barney shook his head. Of course this was the team, four people was a good number for a team if this were a suicide mission. Who the fuck went after a target with three men and a woman anyway? Christ, he knew Gunnar could play stupid sometimes but at least the guy was a certified genius. Asking if three men made up a team was like asking if they preferred to be hung or killed by a firing squad. "Half of it. The rest left. We fly out at midday tomorrow."

She nodded, head drooping slightly. She'd heard the sound of the bikes leaving and figured the less numbers the better when she finally came downstairs. Numbers didn't mean much as she'd learnt in her hole, but with Tool enabling a sense of physical safety, she could begin to be herself again. Isabelle rubbed her eye then tucked her fringe out of the way, ignoring the way Doc seemed to be studying her from his position on the floor. Yang hadn't paid her any mind, one leg half-hanging off the couch and his head facing Ross. If not for him tugging his damp white shirt free of his chest, she would've thought he was asleep. None of them looked particularly intimidating, but appearances were deceiving when it came to Tool's friends.

"What's your call-sign?" Doc asked.

"Belle Morte. It's —"

"French for Beautiful Death," the four men spoke at once. Their French had to be somewhat decent, considering they all resided in New Orleans. That being said, Gunnar and Doc were still the best translators among past and present members.

"Well, you can partner with Doc," Barney said. The change of emotion on her face was obvious as she pursed her lips and looked away, leaning her head on her right hand. Putting the Death twins together would save him the hassle of splitting anyone up and disturbing the team's dynamics. Passing her onto Doc also meant he didn't have to personally babysit her. "Let me guess, you don't subscribe to teamwork?"

"I know how to work as part of a team," she said, biting back her anger. Her old team had been merely six individuals who trusted each other, no partnership bullshit or having to look after each other. Dividing a team into partners was an archaic method that nearly always got people killed in her experience. Isabelle sculled the rest of her half glass and set it down on the floor next to her chair before she stretched her feet out and tugged the robe up slightly, revealing her right leg. "I always fly solo, even on a team. Saves worrying about getting anyone killed except myself."

Yang rolled onto his back and sat up, groaning as he peeled his shirt off and dropped it over the back of the couch. Even for him, the shop was too hot. If only Tool had a pool, or proper air-conditioning in the shop itself. Upstairs would be like sitting in an ice bath, but Tool refused to waste money on the shop itself since the doors were always open. Sweat dripped off his chin and ran down Yin's chest, following the curve of his pectorals and rolling straight down his abs.

Everything was hot and sticky, or damp and foul. The sweat drying on Yang's upper arms made him itch like crazy, and the sweat from his pits only added to the faint smell of manliness that lingered in the air. Tonight would be nothing but humidity and restlessness, resulting in little sleep until he got on the air-conditioned plane. Barney had finally bought something that wasn't a complete piece of shit. "How do you cover your left?"

"I check it." If she wanted to constantly look over her shoulder, she would've kept running and tried to hide without help. She glanced at Yang when he peeled his shirt off and suppressed a laugh at the irony of the situation. If only her ex could've seen her. For all Camilla's talk about possible threesomes, or moresomes, she'd never gone through with it. She wouldn't touch Ross or Tool with a ten foot pole, knowing vaguely where Tool used to have fun, but Doc was somewhat cute, and Yang . . . well, he was a bundle of niceties. "I'm half blind, not half stupid. So who's the target?"

"Someone called Neban. Trafficker, arms dealer, master of all trades." Barney pronounced it knee-buhn, taking a guess. There was no nationality listed in the file, nor religion. It made finding him that extra bit more difficult. Church had also promised no Hague bullshit. The mission was more straightforward than Vilena: all that mattered was the target being buried six feet under, or chopped into pieces and spread over a coca plantation.

"My old boss runs weapons. If they're in the trade I've never heard of them," she said. "Maybe this Neban is trying to take over."

Of course she'd worked for a dealer. Why work as a true mercenary when you could get paid for supplying the scum of the earth with bullets and weapons? Barney buried his internal disgust, maintaining a straight face while the words 'ran weapons' played on repeat in his brain. If anything, their translator situation had suddenly become worse twofold. A mercenary he could give a little leeway to, but not someone who played the Team Neutrality card. "You worked for an arms dealer?"

She nodded. She'd never thought about trading down and working for someone else when the pay was good, and as luck would have it she'd fallen in love with the boss's daughter. Why anyone would give up such a good thing was beyond her comprehension. "First and only job."

Barney looked at Tool then back at Isabelle before he stood and walked outside, muttering about 'goddamn amateurs.' Tool had tricked him into hiring an outright baby. If she'd only ever worked for one boss, she'd get them killed the minute they stepped foot in Russia. The lack of experience alone disqualified her more than what was in her pants did. He slammed the door shut behind him and went straight for his bike, swearing black and blue under his breath as he dropped onto the seat. Lee would know what to do, or Maggie. He needed someone to talk to who wouldn't lie to his face or manipulate him.

Isabelle rolled her eye at Ross's temper tantrum and pushed the cork back into the wine bottle, making sure it was sealed again. She'd split it with Cheyenne when they got back from finding this Neban, maybe see if Tool would get an ice cream machine. "What's his problem?"

"You've worked one job, that's the problem," Yang explained, keeping his tone flat. It wasn't her fault Barney wanted people with military records a mile long. None of them could stand seeing inexperienced kids who deserved to live get killed. After Billy, Barney had become rigid when it came to picking temps.

"I trained for three years, I can cover my own back."

"Define trained," Doc said, watching her warily. She moved like someone with purpose, but three years training meant nothing in the long run. Had she ever served and seen real action like they had? "You ex-military?"

Oh for God's sake. Here it came. The 'you didn't serve so you're a newbie' speech, the usual 'you have no formal training and thus you're disqualified' bullshit she'd heard lord knows how many times over the years. Isabelle had stuck by her boss because he was the opposite of these egotistical arrogant conceited sons of bitches. His military service in Vietnam had shown him the pieces of shit humanity could produce, and so he'd picked people who had no clouded judgement or predispositions. "No." And here came the kicker that would probably show her ass the door. "I never enlisted."

Doc recoiled in disbelief and shook his head in disgust. _I'm gonna be dead by Tuesday._ Someone with no military service whatsoever on their team? That was as ludicrous an idea as him willingly going back to prison.

"I've been in the business longer than most," Isabelle said, crossing her arms and sliding off the chair. She stood, refusing to look at Yang or Doc. Fuck it, who needed them anyway? She'd find another job that didn't involve being kicked around just because she didn't have the right number of scars or a bunch of stupid medals. She followed in Ross's footsteps and walked outside, closing the door gently behind her. Wrapped up in the bathrobe with her hair damp and tousled, things felt as if they were almost starting to go back to normal. To the way they were before she'd been caught and locked away. "Barney," she said, trying to force a tone that would command his attention. "Hey, Ross!"

"I'm on the phone, you mind?" he said, lifting his cell away from his ear. He'd rung Lee but there was no answer, same with Maggie. Jesus, she and Tool really were like-minded in their insistence she get this job. If all she'd done was work for one arms dealer, he didn't need a walking corpse on his team. Someone like her, with so little experience, would get them killed inside of two days.

"You were in Vietnam five years before the fall of Saigon."

"Tool tell you that?" Barney looked over his shoulder, noting how she stood and crossed her arms over her chest. This was a confrontation alright, but the end results wouldn't be to her liking. Lee had failed to win that argument outside Rusty's, and Isabelle would fail to win this one.

"You took a photo of you and your buddy wearing boonie hats a few days after you two arrived. His name was Conrad Stonebanks."

Of course it was him. She'd said she formerly worked for an arms dealer. When didn't his past come back to haunt him? Would he ever be allowed to exorcise his demons without someone returning them? The look in her eye revealed she knew exactly which buttons she was trying to unsuccessfully push, but playing the Stonebanks card seemed awfully pathetic right now. If she was that desperate for work, Gunnar's girl Casey could always help her. Surely they needed translators for hookers and whores. "So you expect me to hire you because what, you were screwing my former friend?"

She scrunched her face up in revulsion. Why did men always assume that? It was possible for two people of the opposite sex to work together without being involved. "Excuse me? He was my _boss._ I was screwing his daughter."

Barney nearly choked, coughing and regaining his composure before she could see the shock in his eyes. Stonebanks had a kid? Some woman had spread her legs long enough to get pregnant to that manipulative money-hungry bastard? If she'd been screwing the boss's daughter, odds were he wouldn't have to deal with any conflicts of interest when it came to her and Doc, but her romantic leanings weren't the issue at hand. "And your point is?"

"I need a ticket out of this country, and you need a translator. I spent a year in Swaziland before I lost my foot. I didn't serve, but I _was_ trained. I'm not some wannabe jarhead who'll puke at the first sign of blood," she insisted. "I'll be out of your hair soon as the job's over."

"How do I know you won't put a bullet in me the minute my back is turned?"

"Your feud with him isn't my business. He can deal with you himself."

"Then why don't you go ask him for a job?"

Her words clicked in his mind as Barney stuffed his phone in his pocket and wiped the sweat off his face with his free hand. _Can_ deal. How could she not know he was dead? If she'd worked for him, surely she would've been in Azmenistan when it all went down. Two years wasn't enough time to forget something as major as her boss being killed. On the other hand, perhaps it was just posturing and bullshit. Tool had photo albums a-plenty of the old days, with names and dates scrawled on the back. She could've easily read them and interrogated the tattooist for details then pieced together some lie to get in the door.

"I've tried, he's not picking up his phone." She'd used one of the burners Tool kept in the drawer for situations like this. Isabelle gritted her teeth, clenching her fists and keeping her arms crossed so she wouldn't begin to reach for the pistol on her leg. Tool had said they needed a translator on short notice, but of course she wasn't good enough. She never was, until she was in their face with a gun to their head and a bullet engraved with their name.

"Then I suggest trying again, because I won't be requiring your services." _Sorry, Tool._ He didn't need a possibly-Stonebanks-trained brat causing dissent amongst him and his friends. Barney especially didn't need someone carrying a vendetta on his team. He'd seen the tattoo on her leg: a one-eyed girl holding the head of a raven? That was pretty symbolic in his books.

"Well, good luck on your mission," she said, almost sending the door flying off its hinges when she threw it open and walked inside. _I'll be praying you get shot, asshole._ Isabelle walked straight to the lift, keeping her head up and eye forward. Lips pursed so they wouldn't quiver, Ross's words continued to sink in. No job meant no cash and a low chance of survival. How long before the Agency showed up and decided to drag her back to Hell? "Thanks for the help, Tool. Looks like I'll be flying back to Paris in the morning."

* * *

 **A/N:** Sorry this has taken so long. IRL came barrelling in and we received an eviction notice (the land is being sold), so trying to find somewhere else to live has become a nightmare. As of late January, updates will become nonexistent until life stabilises again and we have access to the internet.  
I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and keep an eye out for the next one!


	3. Chapter 3

_Your services are no longer required._ What was wrong with him? Had he never learnt not to look a horse in the mouth, or whatever the stupid phrase was. Isabelle shut the door, found her bag and started repacking. She rolled her clothes up, saving space and providing room to hide two pistols. Isabelle would return them when she was no longer on the run, if Tool noticed their absence.

Clearly there was no fast and easy work stateside. Now it was time to move on and look elsewhere; perhaps she would board a cargo ship to Russia and try to disappear in the Caucuses. So long as no one recognised her, Church would struggle to hunt her down. Azmenistan was also an option, regardless of Stonebanks' former presence. Her contacts undoubtedly remained in the country, but whether she could consider them trustworthy enough was a whole other issue.

Cheyenne yawned, rubbing her eyes as she let herself into the room to find Isabelle rummaging through drawers. If she was looking for alcohol, it was under lock and key. She'd heard the noise and allowed curiosity to get the better of her. "You need any help?"

Isabelle instinctively reached for the pistol strapped to her leg before her brain processed it was a female voice speaking. Upon realising the unwanted intruder was Cheyenne, she shook her head and kept packing. The bite of anger in her voice was unintentional but clear. "Non, merci."

"You look like you need a drink."

"I've had one." A glass of wine was enough. Getting close to tipsy would only result in the truth slipping free. Drunk? She would stand on a table and announce to the world exactly what happened to her, then promptly take the empty bottle and smash it over Barney's enormous head.

"Then you need another. How does bourbon sound?"

"Please." Isabelle turned to face Cheyenne. She was more than just beautiful, and far better than someone like Tool or Barney deserved. Why a woman like her had chosen to be involved with Tool, Isabelle couldn't understand. Cheyenne was everything _she_ wanted in a woman and more. "I don't need more alcohol. I just need to pack my stuff and leave."

"If you hang 'round a couple more days, I'm sure Tool can find you work."

"I can't wait a couple days. I need to leave. Now." _Before Church arrives and sends me back._ She'd massacre Church and his goons before ever willingly stepping foot on that hellish island again. Gitmo needed to be razed to the ground and its guards made to kneel, put down like dogs with a bullet each to the back of the head. She'd kill Tool if it was necessary for her to live one day longer. Friendship be damned, her survival was at stake.

"You know Church?"

Belle groaned and hefted the backpack onto her shoulders, clipping it into place and shifting the weight until it felt comfortable. Of course she'd said it aloud. The filter between her brain and mouth had stopped functioning after the first two years in prison. Her thoughts were voiced regardless of political correctness, but her screams and pleading became internalised. What was the point in begging when no one heard her? The pain never stopped, and eventually Isabelle gave up on wasting breath.

"Did Church tell you about Stonebanks? Is that how you know?" Barney said, taking up the doorway when Cheyenne stepped aside. He'd come up to use the bathroom, then the word 'Church' came from the kid's mouth, with a pile of fear and stress attached. A mercenary speaking of the spook? In their world, there was no such thing as coincidence. "You the new babysitter?"

Isabelle drew her pistol from its holster and squared up Ross's chest. Him too? Clearly something had changed in four years: no one respected privacy anymore. Her stomach twisted in revulsion when Barney asked about Church. That CIA scum wanted her to tell him, not the other way around. "Move out of the way. I'm not going to ask again."

He leaned against the door jamb and reached into his pocket for a cigar. She steeled herself momentarily and kept the pistol aimed at his chest, clenching her jaw as a stray tear rolled down her cheek. Until he found out what was going on, Barney wouldn't be going anywhere. She wanted to leave before Church showed up and sent her _back_? Too bad. This all felt like it was turning into a horror movie where someone was killed within the first ten minutes.

He shrugged off a faint feeling of sympathy and lit his cigar, gathering his thoughts while he took a drag. The insinuation that Church was looking for her, the need for fast money, and a ticket out of the country: he was a blind fool some days, but Barney wasn't an idiot. "You're on the run, aren't you?"

Fuck it. If he wouldn't move willingly, she'd move him herself. Isabelle aimed at his right shoulder and squeezed the trigger. The bullet took a small chunk of flesh with it, the shot ringing in her ears and echoing through the building. Barney yelled, swearing black and blue when she barged past him. A couple stitches and some antiseptic later, Ross's flesh wound would be fine.

 _"Barney!"_

 _"Cheyenne!"_

Isabelle didn't pay any further attention to Cheyenne. She looked surprised, perhaps mildly concerned, but seemed more focused on rushing to help Barney than worrying about _her._ The large industrial bin was close enough to Tool's window that she could land on it safely, provided she managed to get out the window. _I just shot Barney Ross._

Belle suppressed a laugh as she hotfooted it into Tool's room and slid her backpack off. She eased the window open then threw it out, the bag landing with a loud bang on the lid of the bin. She ignores the yells and heavy footsteps, trying to tune out the looming threat. Clearly everyone had heard the shot.

"The hell'd you shoot him for?" Tool ran into his room in just under a minute, following Cheyenne's directions. He'd heard the gunshot and assumed the worst. Everyone was either out or downstairs, leaving only Belle and Barney upstairs with Cheyenne . . . none of whom he wanted to lose. "Did you turn dark, is that it?"

For as long as he'd known her she was always showing signs of going dark, but shooting someone? Shooting his friend, in _his_ home? Isabelle slid the window up further and Tool rushed forward to block her exit. He didn't want to use her leg against her, yet there was Barney bleeding two rooms down. "Kid, talk to me."

"He wouldn't get out of the way so I moved him myself. Don't make me go through you too."

Adrenaline began to leach into her bloodstream, until the surge rapidly took hold and struck her with an intense feeling of nausea. She had to get out, get far from here and hope no one said anything. If Church could find her at an isolated farmhouse in the south of France, New Orleans would be a cake walk. Her head swam, hands trembling as she reached for her pistol.

"Tool, move. Please." Her voice cracked and Isabelle wiped another tear away with the back of her shaky hand. If death was the only option, she'd choose it over Cuba. She grit her teeth, trying to remain composed in the face of certain pain.

"What the hell is going on? You got bruises, you need money, and you just shot my friend."

Isabelle saw the reflection in the window three seconds too late. A foot swept her left leg out from under her, sending her crashing to the ground. Pain radiated through her spine and back, which combined with the nausea caused bile to sting her throat. Right leg intact, Isabelle rolled onto her side and slashed out with the ceramic shiv freed from her pant pocket.

Yin kicked the blade from her hand and sent it skittering across the carpet. He didn't want to permanently stop her, just long enough to get answers. Waking and hearing a gunshot, Yang had immediately looked around and noticed Doc running for the stairs. He chose to follow in quick pursuit and left Doc to tend to Barney, only to find Tool standing between her and the window. No further thought was required, just action. "You threaten two of my friends and harm one: this is no good."

She got her arms under her and pushed up, pulling her left leg forward. The sooner she got to her feet, the better. Isabelle pushed down on her left and dragged her right up, struggling to stand. She found a balance and righted herself, finding Tool still behind her and Yang in front. Goddammit, when would men learn to walk away when told? Putting their noses where it didn't concern them only got them shot, as proved by Barney.

"Back off! The only thing I'm doing is leaving. If you get in my way, I will snap your fucking neck myself," she said. Her rage gave her voice a hard edge, and something to lean on. It was better to be pissed off and ruthless than frozen and terrified. Her anger consistently came before fear arrived, which meant she was going to shatter soon enough. Isolated in a room with two men? This wasn't Gitmo. Shit like this wasn't meant to happen on the outside. "Get out of my way, Tool."

"If you're on the run, Tool can help," Barney said, waving off Doc's concerns. They were duly noted but he was right as rain since it was just a graze. Fine, maybe he _was_ a little surprised: he didn't often get shot at close range and not end up in a hospital. "You said if Church comes here, he'll send you back. Send you where?"

"What happened to 'don't pry' and all that other bullshit?"

"You just shot me. Humour me."

It wasn't his concern. The window was still blocked by Tool's bulk, Yang was just feet away, and Barney was about to block the doorway. _You're not trapped,_ she reminded herself. _There's always a way out._ Three men, one with clear martial arts skills — she wouldn't be able to take all of them on. Belle counted five seconds between breaths then went straight for Ross. If he wanted to know, he'd have to listen very carefully. "You want to know where he'll send me?"

"Where?" Barney said. He should've seen it coming. A cheap shot was so obvious he'd dismissed it, yet as her knee jackhammered his balls and his legs began to give way, Barney scolded himself. Women always went for the ball busters. The bullet wound, combined with sharp throbbing pains coming from his balls, radiated through the top half of his body.

She stepped past Barney and came face to face with _him_ and the large blade in his right hand. Doc kept his arm by his side, one eye on her and one eye on the gun at her hip. If she could shoot Barney, who was to say she wouldn't shoot him?

Pushing someone over the edge when they were already so close was something Barney did, not him. He knew that look in her eye. She was searching for a way out and ready to cross every line to find it. As to whether that meant going around or through him, Doc was certain it wouldn't be the former. "How long you spend in prison, Belle?"

"Ferme ta gueule, connard." _Shut your mouth._

Doc frowned. _Connard?_ Now that was just outright filthy and rude. "You kiss your girlfriend with that mouth?"

"Yes, now excuse me, I need to leave."

"Did Church put you in prison because you wouldn't turn on Stonebanks?" Barney said, disregarding any and all care for decency. He straightened himself out and propped himself up, smearing blood on the door jamb. Barney didn't reach out to turn her around, remembering the way she'd jumped when he went to help her. She was wound tighter and more tweaked than Gunnar on an extremely bad day. "You have loyalty to him, would you serve time for him too?"

The look on Tool's face when he closed in on the doorway was one of loss, like all the hope had suddenly been ripped from his heart. Barney's shoulders sagged and he instantly regretted saying it, but the cat was out of the bag now. This was why he never hired nonmilitary, their egos had to be stroked just to get them to do their jobs. Working for Conrad Stonebanks, the biggest monster in the industry, had clearly inflated hers.

Playing henchwoman to a psycho was something she was seemingly proud of, and it made Barney's insides twist up and try to find an exit. She'd said she'd called him already and gotten no answer. It wasn't surprising in the least his death hadn't reached whatever hole she crawled out of.

"Or do you just sleep around with his daughter and do whatever jobs he sends your way? That's what the tattoo represents, doesn't it? Killing Ravens. Killing _us._ Was that gonna be your next job?" It was a shot in the dark but he'd take it.

"Ferme —"

"English, s'il vous plait," Tool said.

"Shut up," Isabelle said, clenching her fists. "God, he said you were respectable, Ross, but you're just a weak little bitch with daddy issues."

Tool sat on his bed, wrestling with the anger that was about to explode inside him. Stonebanks? Connard? Weak little —

"Let her go, Doc. Walk out that door and keep walking, kid, you ain't welcome in this building anymore." Stonebanks, prison, what'd happened to her in the past five years?

"That's fine by me. Good luck in Swaziland."

 **x - x - x**

Gunnar parked at the top of the street and walked the rest of the way until he came to a small two bedroom house with a porch that was slowly rotting and lichen-covered terracotta roof tiles. The dark curtains blocked most of the light, preventing anyone from seeing in. It gave Casey and her seven-year-old daughter plenty of privacy. Gunnar dodged weakened timber slats and knocked on the door, listening for the sound of running footsteps within. Sofia should've been asleep by now, but for all he knew the kid had chosen to stay up late.

Some nights he'd be there by ten and Sofia would be waiting for him, unfazed by the glares from her mother. She was just like her dad, Casey said. Blonde, stubborn, and willing to run into any danger that crossed her path. That included climbing the tree in the backyard and jumping into the pool.

"Hey, Gunnar," Casey said, opening the door. She held her arms out for a hug and gave a sombre smile. Whenever he went away on missions, he came by to tell them where he was going. He brought back postcards from Russia, Sweden, Italy, Somalia: anywhere he could get his hands on one. If he couldn't, Gunnar took photos and had them custom-printed.

He kissed her then pulled her into a hug, all five eight of her with new tattoos and what looked like some extra muscle on her biceps. The first time they'd met, she was slender and beautiful; now she was still beautiful, with a couple pounds of muscle added on. All that time spent using Sofia for push-ups had certainly paid off. "How's she been behaving?"

Casey chuckled, stepping back to let him inside. Gunnar almost filled the doorway now, his combat boots adding another inch of height he certainly could live without. She quickly brushed her hair back with her fingers and tied it up out of her face, a thin crooked scar almost invisible on her right cheek. "How do you think?"

Of course she was misbehaving. He'd have to curb her appetite for adventure when he got back. Not living with Casey put her at less risk from his past coming back to haunt her, but if Sofia got into trouble, he wasn't there to see it. Casey and Sofia's safety was priority, even at the expense of his relationship with his daughter. "Brat."

"I'm not a brat," Sofia mumbled, yawning and rubbing her eyes. "Hi, Papa," she said, giving a sleepy smile and walking towards him. She stretched her arms up and a moment later he lifted her to head height, allowing her to wrap her arms around him. "I missed you."

"I miss you too, Sof," he said, giving her a bear hug. Her eyes were all Casey, but that heart-shaped face and her wild stubborn nature were him. Sofia had already shown her reckless nature, proving herself more than capable of being as troublesome as Gunnar was. "I'm leaving for Russia in a few hours, so I wanted to come say goodbye."

Russia again? Sofia's face lit up, Last time he went to St. Petersburg, Papa brought her back a locket just like Anastasia's. "Are you going to St. Petersburg?"

"Moscow," he said, noting the look of disappointment on her face. Even after eight years, Gunnar was still keeping Sofia's existence under wraps. No one needed to know about her. Ever since Vilena, he stopped taking unnecessary risks. The less exposure of his familial connections the better. "If we're lucky, I can convince Uncle Barney or Uncle Lee to swing by."

"Please!"

"I'll ask them." He set her down and kissed her on the forehead. "I love you, Sof, now off to bed."

"I love you too, Papa."

"She misses this," Casey said, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her cheek against his back. "There's a show her class is doing on the morning of the twenty-seventh. Do you think you can make it?"

"I'll try." Gunnar would drag the team along and sit them all in the back row where no one but Casey and Sofia would notice them if required. He'd consistently missed so much of her life because of the job; perhaps it _was_ time to consider retirement. His body certainly thought so. It was a struggle to get out of bed some mornings without wanting to shoot up, or throw back a shot of vodka.

"Promise me you won't get shot again."

"I can't promise that."

"Then at least —"

He'd stopped wearing body armour in his thirties. It interfered with his ability to move, thus it was discarded. Gunnar turned and silenced her with a kiss, pulling Casey close then threading his fingers through her hair. He groaned when she began to slide his shirt up, caressing the multitude of scars crisscrossing his chest.

"I'm sorry it didn't work out," he mumbled into the kiss, her teeth tugging on his bottom lip. She pulled his shirt up and off, tossing it aside only to drag her fingers down his pectorals. This was an offer of sex and so much more. It was what Gunnar wanted, needed. He gripped her thighs, lifted Casey, and carried her towards the couch. "I miss you."

She'd never been able to identify whatever this was between them. Her instincts decreed it wasn't love, and Casey's heart agreed. She made it clear from day one she was a sex worker, not his girlfriend. Two years following their first meeting, things turned unprofessional. A few hookups at a motel became regular occurrences, resulting in sex without strings attached.

For Gunnar, some vague notion of a relationship still lingered at the back of his mind. He took steps to discard the appeal, yet it was the sense of having a family that kept him from walking away permanently. Sofia was his daughter, his glimmer of hope. And just like the addict he used to be, Gunnar kept going back, immersing himself in other aspects of her life. The addiction was becoming real, because he couldn't last a week without seeing her.

Sooner or later, something would have to give. Now, he was uncertain if these feelings of elation and contentment were his reaction to having a family, or simply the calm before the storm that would result in everything falling apart.

"You miss the sex," Casey teased as he dropped her onto the couch and lowered himself to her knees. She reached down, running her fingers through his curls before resting her hand on his head. "I do too."

"No more talking." Also true, he did miss the sex — and the fun, the part that drove him truly insane. Her hips bucking, fingers clawing at his shoulders, the endorphins that would flood her body. Knowing she was reduced to a legless throbbing _aching_ wet mess because of him, and that euphoric smile which would appear on her face after. Not even God could match the look of utter bliss on Casey's face post-orgasm.

She leaned back, a shiver running up her spine when he caressed her thigh with his lips. Keeping quiet wasn't as easy as he thought it was. "Oh, fuck, Gunnar."

"That's the plan."


	4. Chapter 4

_Walk out that door and keep walking._ Isabelle stepped into the lift, the weight of Tool's words hanging off her shoulders. It'd taken all of five seconds for her to snap and Tool to push back. He never dealt crap out nor would he take any. The filth that'd come from her mouth on the other hand: since when did she speak like that, and to a stranger no less?

Her anger was half the problem. Every scrap of it had been condensed and bottled up inside for so long she'd become a walking volcano. All it would take was someone to push hard enough before she completely exploded. Isabelle hit the button for the lift and leaned against the railing, tremors still affecting her hands even as she shoved them in her pockets. She'd always prided herself on being eloquent, able to talk herself out of any corner. Any chance of talking her way out of this one was gone.

 _Stupid,_ she berated herself. _You need a job, not friends._ She glanced at the emergency stop button then struck it with her fist. The lift shuddered and came to a halt between the two floors. The building she wasn't welcome in any longer? Nowhere else felt safer. Stepping out that door would only guarantee her repeat imprisonment. Isabelle lowered herself onto the floor and sat with her knees bent, then slid her hands free of her pockets and held them before her face. She could still feel cold steel under her fingers, the warmth of flesh as she clawed and punched and fought.

When it came down to it, all her training made no difference. She still found herself on the losing side. It didn't matter how hard she fought or what the stakes were, whether she was injured or not, the end result was consistent.

Now she had nowhere to go and no one to lean on. Dead woman walking was right. At this rate the Agency would find her within a week. Where in God's name could she go? Who could she call? All her contacts bar Tool were overseas. This had been her first and only option.

A few minutes later, she reluctantly reached up and thumped the down button. The lift whirred to life and continued its descent while she used the railing to pull herself to her feet. It wasn't so easy getting up anymore. Her left leg was weak, the short curved running blade attached to her right foot allowed her to move fast, however it still wasn't flesh and blood. She couldn't pivot on it nor bend her ankle.

Isabelle stepped out when the lift came to a halt and kept her head down and her arms by her sides as she walked towards the door. _Can't hotwire a car, can't find a job: this is why you need money._ Without a job, obtaining money was an impossible feat. Nine years of contacts had gone to waste, her last bridge was burnt, and her boss wasn't picking up. After everything she'd seen and done, to just waste away in another cell seemed almost deserved.

Perhaps God did exist and this was his punishing her for a lack of faith. On the other hand, maybe the past five years were no more than a case of 'wrong place, wrong time' and all her nightmares had come about because those men were monsters who'd found easy prey. Whatever the reason, it didn't matter now. It was time to bottle her shit, repress it, and move on.

She shut the front door quietly and sat on the step. The street seemed eerily quiet for this time of morning, but she'd never spent long enough in New Orleans to know if it was normal. Isabelle crossed her legs and rested her head against the shop's exterior, the cool night air sending a shiver down her spine. Before she could fight it, sleep pulled her under into a hellish world of pain and torment.

 _A pair of hands gripped her ankle and pulled while she kicked out with her other foot. She'd heard the door creak and assumed it was a guard checking on her, until the cell door opened. Her screams fell on deaf ears and her prayers went unanswered as a hand grabbed her right arm. No! Isabelle struggled and lunged for the bars with her left while something sharp was jammed into her leg. "Get off! Fucking connard, get off me! No!"_

Those were the days when she could still fight like one of the Erinye, defiant and willing to kill. After a year, she continued to resist. A sedative was used on occasion, and other times they fought until she was bloody and unconscious. A quick blast with a hose solved the guards' issue of evidence, leaving her to wake up a wet shivering mess.

By the third year, she began to waste away. They fed her what was required to keep her alive and no more. Sleep came easily sans any comforting dreams. If she did have pleasant ones, Belle found it impossible to remember them.

 **x - x - x**

"Get some sleep, Barney, you're gonna need it." The strain in Tool's voice was clear as he shut and locked the window. He collapsed onto the bed and slid under the sheets, letting out a groan when his head hit the pillow.

"Yes, Mom!" Barney checked his revolver then holstered it and took the stairs down to the ground floor. Yang and Doc were on the couch and floor respectively, back to the zombie-like states they'd been in prior to him being shot. His shoulder had been stitched and bandaged, the eventual scar just two inches long. All things considered, it could've been worse: Barney could've been on a surgical table having bullets removed from his chest.

Sleep wasn't going to happen. Not with this humidity, nor with the nagging reminder that the legacies of his very dead former friend were both on the loose somewhere. Barney stripped off his shirt and dumped it on the back of an empty chair before he walked into the attached garage. He found Tool's cleaning kit then slid a back panel sideways within a large metal locker. Hidden out of sight and where no one would ever think to look was a long pine wood gun case. Within it was an eighty-year-old Winchester rifle.

Cleaning and maintenance had been his job as a cofounder of the original team. He hated when guns weren't cleaned properly, and Stonebanks' predisposition for violence meant trace evidence was always being carried around. The risks of ever being caught were slim to none but regardless, Barney wouldn't take the chance — beneath his gruff exterior was the type of man who covered every base twice.

He cleaned the rifle from barrel to butt, oiling the wooden stock and letting it dry before Ross returned it to its hiding place. Every few years, Tool brought out the rifle and showed it off. It was bought by his great grandfather, he told them. One day he'd pass it to the next generation. As each year came and went, that seemed less likely; Cheyenne wasn't getting pregnant anytime soon; Barney — if he had kids — wasn't showing any interest in being the rifle's new owner; and Tool refused to allow it to fall into the hands of his no-good embezzler brother. Family heirlooms were meant to stay in the family, not with blood relatives simply because they were blood.

Barney glanced up as the garage door was suddenly slid open and a sports bike wheeled in. A small present painted on the side near the front tyre told him exactly who'd finally returned: Christmas. Barney smiled and gave a wave, relief setting in at the presence of a familiar face. "Hey, Lee."

He noticed the bandage on Barney's arm and frowned. That hadn't been there when he left. Jesus, was Barney picking fights with knives now? Lee shook his head as he parked the bike, removed his helmet, and climbed off. _Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I? Stupid bastard._ "What the hell happened to you?"

Barney shrugged. The last thing he needed was Lee going all overprotective mother on him. It was bad enough in the field, but here? Barney just loosened the bandage and partly slid it down to reveal Doc's handiwork; luckily for them all, he wasn't piloting a helicopter. "It's just a flesh wound."

"And how do you manage to get yourself shot in a tattoo parlour?"

Funny thing, that. "I got kneed in the balls too, if you feel like cuddling on the couch and icing them for me."

Lee covered his mouth and tried not to laugh. This was far too amusing. It was just a shame he'd missed it. Shot in the shoulder _and_ a knee to the groin? "Better you than me. The others back yet?"

"Not yet. They'll probably show up in the morning, and we still need a translator."

Caesar's Russian was fine, but Gunnar's was nearly flawless. Doc's Swazi on the other hand . . . Barney had a sneaking suspicion his failed linguistic skills were what'd gotten him caught and thrown in prison. Nothing else explained how Doc, a Cirque de Soleil wannabe and former gymnast, had been slow enough for a set of cuffs to be slapped on.

"I'm going to bed," Lee said finally, the words 'need a translator' rattling around in his brain. Why Barney didn't just invite Maggie to join the team was beyond him. She had all the linguistic skills they'd ever need and more. If Barney did play that conflict of interest b.s again, Lee would slap him. The fact remained, all someone had to do to get Barney's attention was mention _her_ and Barney would be on his feet faster than a meerkat on lookout duty.

"I might come with you, just give me a minute." Barney packed away the gun cleaning kit and followed Lee upstairs in silence. No one needed to know when or if he was having issues. As the leader of the rugrats, it was his job to reassure them and keep them alive. He didn't need anyone — not Lee, not Tool, not that disrespectful brat who'd called him a weak little bitch — questioning his method or abilities.

Barney also refused to allow his state of mind to be called into question. If he planned to retire, he'd do so of his own accord when and if he was ready to pass the baton to Smilee. Fortunately, that wouldn't happen anytime soon. Lee was his partner, the guy who consistently stood by his Gunnar-level stupid decisions; however, he was also the only man on the present team who Ross felt he could openly talk to.

Only Lee knew about the dreams, the nightmares; the nights when he woke up in a sweat shaking and stammering because his hands hadn't caught the rope in time. With Barney unable to string together a clear sentence, Lee would sit with him until the aftereffects passed.

Two years later, he was still having fucking dreams about Azmenistan. If his dreams didn't involve Lee dying, it was Caesar being taken out permanently in Mogadishu; the building collapsing on Galgo and Luna; not reaching his gun in time to stop Stonebanks; the hotel crashing down on all twelve of them and burying them under the rubble. The fear of losing his team was creeping up on him the longer he spent in the field, and it didn't seem like it'd be going away anytime soon.

 **x - x - x**

"Mama! Wake up!" Sofia shook Casey, "Mama! We gotta go!"

Casey yawned and rubbed her eyes as she sat up. Her bed hair was a tangled atrocity and the satin pillows had done nothing to prevent it. She squinted at the clock and groaned in the realisation someone — Gunnar, undoubtedly — had switched off her alarm. Sofia started tugging on her arm and pulling her towards the edge of the bed. A moment later, a large hand gripped hers and hauled her forward and to her feet.

"Morning."

"Go take a shower." Gunnar kissed Casey on the cheek then wrapped his arm around Sofia and lifted her. "I'll drop her off at school."

Casey began to protest then noticed the look on his face. Gunnar understood boredom better than most. He'd once filled his days with drugs, women and alcohol just to pass the time. The cynic inside her wondered if he still did that when he wasn't working. Living only on her savings — and his money — she found her days were long and drawn out when Sofia was at school. Casey needed a job that paid well and took her mind off worrying about him so much. "Sof, you better be good for Papa."

"I will be!"

"Do you need anything at the store?" Gunnar said, "I can go there on the way back. Milk? Tea?"

"Actually I was planning on going there this afternoon."

"Okay." He understood the need to escape being confined. Staring at four walls could send anyone stir-crazy after a long time. They'd both lived somewhat nomadic lifestyles before settling in New Orleans, but the need to be constantly moving still burned inside the two of them. "Do you want me to pick Sofia up in the afternoon?"

"She has dance practise. I'll be driving her there after school, and you'll be off to Russia, won't you?"

"Right." _Russia._ As if he could care less about some stupid arms dealer. He was her dad, it was his sacred duty to be at that dance recital, not on a plane. Yet his job kept the money flowing and Sofia safe so she could perform her dance in three weeks time.

Sofia huffed and started walking towards the bedroom door. She wasn't going to walk all the way to school by herself, but maybe she'd have to if her parents didn't stop talking. "Papa, we're gonna be late!"

"Alright, we're going." He kissed Casey goodbye on the cheek and rushed to catch up with Sofia. She'd already fetched her bag and put her helmet on by the time he found her waiting by the front door.

"Safety first," she reassured him, tapping her dark blue helmet twice. With bright red flames going down either side, she looked like Optimus Prime. Her blonde hair sticking out from beneath the helmet, she brushed her fringe out of her eyes and gave him a thumbs up. "I know the rules, Papa."

"Okay, what's rule three?"

"Keep your arms in and no being silly."

"That's my girl. Bye, Mama, I love you."

"I love you, Mama," Sofia shouted as her father opened the door. She rushed outside, going straight for the large Harley parked in the driveway.

Once Casey was passed out, he'd forced himself to get out of bed and wheeled his bike down the street. Her car was still having brake pad problems and Gunnar still hadn't solved the problem. Casey refused to buy a new car until they were certain it was hopeless; she also refused to allow him to pay for the aforementioned new car.

Sofia was obsessed with mechanics, always complaining that she wasn't allowed to be under Casey's car when he had it up on jacks. It was dangerous, he reminded her. If he got hurt, it wouldn't be as bad. Jacks could slip, but if she behaved between now and Mama's birthday, he'd let her under and show her the ropes. The sooner he culled her addiction to danger, the stress Gunnar was carrying internally would be alleviated.

Gunnar made sure the deadbolt lock was on before he shut the door behind him and took off with Casey on his bike. Her hands gripping him tightly, Sofia clung to him like a koala until they arrived at her elementary school. Her teacher, Miss O'Shaughnessy, seemed nice enough but Gunnar was still wary. As he'd learnt the hard way by once insulting Casey, women weren't to be underestimated.

"Mama said you have practise, so she'll pick you up this afternoon, and I'll be off to Russia by then so you need to be good. Pinky swear you won't jump into the pool again?"

Sofia handed him her helmet and nodded as she stood on the nature strip. "I promise, Papa." She looped her pinky with his and kissed him on the cheek when he bent down to hug her. "I'll miss you."

"I'll miss you too." Coercing Barney to make a pit stop in St Petersburg would take a miracle, but for Sofia? Anything was possible. "I love you, _prinsessa._ "

Sofia grinned, revealing a gap where one of her teeth once was. She'd fallen out of bed when he'd come in to wake her and hit the floor face-first. The tooth fairy would pay a lot for this one, maybe enough that she could get Mama a fancy bike like his. She started walking to her classroom and waved behind her, listening out for the loud thundering sound of he and his bike leaving.

 **x - x - x**

Gunnar waited until she was inside before he took off. Barney would complain that he was late and the others would follow in their fearless leader's footsteps. He got to the shop just before nine and parked outside, paying no attention to the person sitting on the front step. Doc, Galgo, and Toll were all sitting around the coffee table eating bowls of cereal — Ear-ios, probably — and Lee was doing crunches and half paying attention as Barney rambled on about the scheduled flight.

"You're late, Gunnar."

"I had to make a delivery."

Barney frowned. A delivery? If he was dealing — taking drugs had been one thing, but if Jensen was using his plane and risking their asses for a few kilos of coke, Barney would murder him. "Whatever, just pay attention. Yang can catch you up after. Church emailed confirmation: Amil is in Russia. From the photos, he looks similar to Lee with severe facial burns."

The photos were laid out on the coffee table. All down the left side of his face was melted skin, scarred and twisted as if someone had thrown sulfuric acid at him. The pair of sunglasses did the opposite of hiding his injuries, shifting a person's attention to the burns and away from the faded tattoos on Neban's neck.

Lee gave a wary look at Gunnar when he mentioned the delivery. The false dichotomy Gunnar's words seemed to present made his stomach churn. There _were_ other reasons for Gunnar to be making a delivery, but his mind instantly thought of only two possibilities: guns, or drugs. "Church thinks the burns're prosthetics. Says they look too perfect."

"And the tattoos?"

"I don't know. Cyrillic, maybe?" Lee picked up a close-up of Amil's neck and passed it to Gunnar. "Can you translate?"

He took one look and laughed, the word _петух_ tattooed in cursive. Above it was a feather. The meaning was clear to anyone who knew what they were looking at, and whilst Gunnar's experience with the Russian prison system took place while he was in his late twenties, he'd learnt fast. "He was everyone's prison bitch and butt-buddy. It's read as _petukh,_ translates to rooster."

"Bag's still there. You sure no one slipped in last night?" Tool said in passing as he headed for the door. He'd looked out the window when he woke, seen the bag still on the dumpster, and a mild panic began to weigh him down. Barney's words had been replaying in his head since dawn, reminding him the hand that fed them was also the hand they didn't want to bite. _Did Church put you in prison because you wouldn't turn on Stonebanks?_ Church, prison, Stonebanks, fear. Shooting someone because they wouldn't move wasn't odd behaviour, but doing it in his home certainly was. _You want to know where he'll send me?_

"I was down here all night, brother," Doc said. "No one came in or out that door."

"Thanks, Doc." Tool paused behind the couch and looked over Gunnar's shoulder, studying the photo momentarily. If no one had come in or out, she was probably gone. "Tattooing petukh on someone's neck? That's a declaration, a brand. Most prison tatts are on the back or chest."

Tool had seen Gunnar's tattoos once. Three spires on a cathedral for three years, and a snake coiled near the base of his neck to represent his drug addiction. If there were more on the lower half of Jensen's body, Tool had never noticed them. According to Barney, only the two of them knew about Gunnar's tattoos. They were a piece of his past the man refused to talk about and the team respected that, until the day push would finally come to shove.

"Hey, Gunnar, you mind checking the lot down the block? You're looking for a brunette woman with one eye," Barney said, catching the look on Tool's face. Perhaps they had matching thoughts, or he was being overly cautious. There was a good reason they normally avoided jobs in Russia. It was too risky, and the trust Barney had lost in him all those years ago was still yet to return.

"Sure." What was he, Barney's errand boy? Gunnar pushed off the couch and headed for the front door, Bowie knife sheathed on his left side. He shut the door behind him, muttered an 'excuse me' and made it two feet down the sidewalk before he looked back and noticed the gaping hole in her head. _Found you._

"Excuse me, you okay?" Gunnar said, reaching out to touch her shoulder. She jerked back instantaneously, lifting her head to look at him. The woman nodded and forced a smile. "I'm Gunnar. Do you need anything?"

"I'm fine, merci."

French accent, the voice — she was the girl from Tool's kitchen! He tried not to stare and instead focused on the bridge of her nose. The look in her eye read exhaustion, her shoulders sat low and for all it was worth, she appeared defeated. "You trying to avoid the testosterone inside?"

"Something like that."

"You're the French woman from the kitchen, aren't you?"

"Oui."

"Je m'appelle Gunnar," he said again, extending his hand this time and turning slightly so she could see the tattoo on his right bicep. "I'm one of the team."

Oh for God's sake. How many were there? Isabelle swallowed and braced herself before she shook his hand once then let go. Her palms slightly sweaty from the already growing humidity, and his firm grip made her hand ache slightly. She'd made physical contact with someone; that was good. All she had to do was say her name, the conversation would be over, and she could leave. Surely this wouldn't carry on for much longer. "Je m'appelle Isabelle."

"You're from the South, aren't you?"

"My accent?"

"Nouvelle-Aquitane."

He had an ear for accents then, or Tool had filled him in. Who was to say this wasn't just some setup on Tool's behalf to coerce her into apologising? She wouldn't apologise for reacting to the situation at hand. She'd tell Tool she was sorry for threatening him — which she was, he'd always been nothing but kind to her — but this was what desperation turned her into. "Close enough."

"You drink tea or coffee?"

"Tea."

He gestured for her to wait. "Give me five minutes and I'll be back with the best cup you've ever had."

Isabelle swallowed and nodded. Tea would wake her up, and it would allow her to just sit there and give herself time to think, right? No, she couldn't just sit here and drink; she had to leave and get as far from New Orleans as possible. _Oh shit,_ she thought. One handshake and she was playing nice already. _Drink the tea then leave._

* * *

 **A/N:** Oh I'm definitely continuing, Ashley! I've just got a lot of IRL baggage unfortunately. Hope you enjoy, though this could be the last chapter for a while. I'll keep you guys updated.


	5. Chapter 5

When Gunnar walked out the front door five minutes after he'd come back inside, Tool knew something was up. He was carrying two steaming mugs, and the determined look on his face only made Tool's inner alarm bells ring. Jensen hadn't said anything about finding her, so the uneasy silence he'd fallen into while Barney continued to brief the team only made his stomach churn and the acid creep up his throat, leaving Tool wanting to hurl.

He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans and watched Gunnar push open the front door with his foot; stupidly, instead of following him outside, Tool chose to remain seated with his hands in his lap. Sure, maybe kicking her out wasn't the smartest thing he'd ever done, but it'd been more than necessary. It gave them both much needed time to cool off, think, and pray. Tool was crossing his fingers that Barney would still agree to take her with him, provided she hadn't disappeared.

Surely Barney would come to see the advantage in a tenth man and professional translator. Maggie on her own was beyond reproach when it came to her acquired skill sets. Chan, like the rest of their sorry asses, had been forced to hone her craft and cover all her bases, all for want of a team. She was an excellent fighter, an amazing soldier, unlike Leroux. A warrior Maggie certainly was, a professional translator — and former employee of an arms dealer — she was not.

"Tool, she's probably kicking back in a motel watching cable," Barney said, in the hopes it'd snap Tool out of his thoughts and drag him back down to earth. "Come on, old man, rack your brain. Surely you've heard of Amil Neban sometime. A guy like this doesn't just come outta nowhere."

"Wait, what did you say the target's name was?" Galgo spoke around a mouthful of cereal, bowl of Cap'n Crunch in one hand and spoon in the other. "Amil Neban? The arms dealer?"

"Galgo, have you been listening at all?"

"It's breakfast time, Barney. To break your fast, and I am starving. I _was_ following along but you lost me at the 'put Doc at risk' part."

Barney groaned internally. He'd covered that an hour ago. There was no risk involved just by taking Doc back to Swaziland, provided they kept to the shadows and avoided drawing attention. The fact most of them were white would unfortunately go against them. If Galgo wasn't paying attention, did he think food was really more important than —

No, that was such a bad question and one he'd never even ask Caesar. Asking Galgo to choose between food or staying alive? God, that would really be a bad call. Barney took a breath before he decided to reach over and shove that spoon where it belonged. "The target is Amil Neban, an arms dealer. Find and kill, that's all the job calls for."

"We're going to need more men, and the juniors. Neban doesn't go anywhere without an army. Before Mingo and Torres passed, we were on a mission. We crossed paths with this Neban."

"And?" Barney pressed. Even Church had been unable to give him much information. The target was a ghost with no digital presence, making the CIA's job 'harder'. "You ever see the guy?"

"He razed a small town to the ground in an hour," Galgo said. "I never saw his face. There was a man barking orders into a radio, but we couldn't confirm if it was him. Drones, SAMs, nuclear weapons; they say anything big that governments don't want terrorists getting ahold of, Neban will supply. He's the reaper's best friend."

In other words, their target was another Stonebanks. The tiny part of Barney that still had a moral compass was glad. Galgo's words would make killing him that much easier. Missiles, drones, a village destroyed, terrorists: it all came together to equal one twisted bastard who Barney would, dare he say happily, soon put in the ground.

Doc listened intently to Galgo's words when Barney prompted him to continue. The cold edge to his voice as he recounted the attack on the village said it all; the target was someone who deserved it. They didn't need to trick themselves, or desperately clutch onto some fragment of reality for comfort just to go through with it. The mission would be carried out with deadly precision. In and out without so much as a misfired bullet was the unspoken agreement, provided they could get inside in the first place.

 **x - x - x**

 _If you apologise, he'll act like it was no big deal. You know what he's like,_ Isabelle reminded herself, glancing over her shoulder as Gunnar walked inside. She'd give him the five minutes. If anything, it would only make her decision easier, right? She rubbed her hands together and ignored the light rain that still continued to sprinkle down, leaving her hair damp and sticking to her face. _You lost your temper, that's all. You're running on fear and fumes. Any other time and you'd go in there._

Any other time didn't involve life or death. Leaving New Orleans meant leaving safety and security. There was also the matter of money. She could transfer it back and forth between accounts, but there was no way to touch it, and who — other than Tool — would hire a half-blind amputee?

When the rain proceeded to get heavier, Isabelle slid backwards on the concrete and sat farther under the awning. She wiped the water from her face and brushed her loose fringe out of her eyes, silently cursing the water gods who undoubtedly held some kind of grudge. Her clothes were damp but not soaked through, leaving her warm enough to fight the urge to rush inside in case the weather took a turn for the worse. She supposed Blondie — Gunnar, was it? — had warned her, and like any fear-stricken woman with half a heart remaining, she'd chosen to ignore his advice.

What felt like an hour was only a few minutes if that. Before she could properly dry her hands, the door next to her opened and the strong scent of warm spices filled the air. Gunnar set the mug down next to her without a word then took his seat on the other side of the steps. The silence wasn't particularly comforting, unlike the warmth between her hands when she lifted the mug, and yet her instincts said it was better this way. If she didn't talk, there would be no invitation to strike up conversation nor questions to answer.

The first sip bloomed heat in her stomach, the second spread that warmth to her chest and rendered Isabelle mute as she clutched the mug closer to her chest. Damp and cold with a hot drink in hand, it was the closest she'd come to feeling normal so far, aside from the shower. She could taste the honey, the milk, the tea leaves — and something warm and spicy, maybe cinnamon? Whatever it was, he hadn't lied about how good it would be.

"Merci," she murmured, glancing across at Gunnar. A thank you was in order, she supposed; he had brought her tea without so much as a please. He also didn't know her from Adam and seemed to respect the lack of knowledge. "Tool is still inside, oui?"

"Yeah, he is," Gunnar said before taking a sip of his own tea. He sat far back enough under the awning so as to not be soaked to the bone, but also well out of arm's reach of her. If two and two equalled four, that bandage around Barney's shoulder suggested she wasn't going to allow anyone to push her around. It also wasn't a bad shot on her behalf either.

Sitting there, it almost seemed like he was having deja vu. The first time Gunnar had gotten so tweaked he'd nearly hurled Barney through a wall, he'd wound up sitting on these steps afterwards too. Something had snapped inside him that night, probably caused by Barney showing concern, telling him maybe he shouldn't have gotten doped up prior to the mission, that they'd need their world class sniper, and before he knew it the monster was unleashed.

"If you're worried about Barney . . . he'll say yes, once he realises how fucked we are."

"Well I'm not." She didn't want acceptance due to a bad situation; that was as much a sympathy vote as Tool's asking Barney for a job on her behalf.

She finished the rest of her tea and set the empty mug next to the wall, all too aware Tool was only feet away. He was the spider inside his parlour, and she the fly too terrified to enter. Tool she could face, he knew her life story, the scars she bore; the others didn't. Isabelle braced herself mentally before she stood and clenched her fists. _All you have to do is apologise,_ she told herself, _it's not that hard._ If it wasn't, why were her hands trembling?

Everything — even sitting on the steps with Gunnar, wasting time on what she had to admit was some pretty fucking excellent tea — came down to a choice between prison or freedom. Isabelle refused to accept the former, but the trivial bullshit involved with the latter . . . was _this_ why she'd called Barney weak? He had no conviction, no trust; some faith, perhaps, but he'd still said no. Tool, on the other hand, had it all. The strength, the wisdom to know an argument was just a bump in the road, the conviction to stand there and tell her working for Conrad Stonebanks was the worst decision she had ever made and _Jesus Christ, kid, did he do that to your eye? I told you to walk away! You keep getting injured and you're not going to see thirty._

Isabelle turned around, ignoring the ache in her chest. Tool had always been good to her. He was one of the few decent people in her life, and maybe that was her problem: she didn't know how to deal with decent people. Stonebanks had been an asshole extraordinaire, always knocking her on her ass if he thought she'd stepped out of line. The yelling and fighting was just how they communicated, otherwise he wouldn't listen period and would go off halfcocked without hearing what she had to say.

"Good luck," Gunnar muttered, interest waning as she walked inside. _You're going to need it._ Barney was in one of those griping _my heart is blacker than yours_ moods and the atmosphere almost volatile. One spark from her and Gunnar didn't know what would happen. Barney might get shot again, she might get shot; Lee could even whip out one of his knives or, worst case scenario, Tool would bring his own blade out and then you _knew_ shit was about to get serious.

 **x - x - x**

Tool braced himself when the door swung open and heavy footsteps echoed. If it was Gunnar telling him he hadn't found her, Barney would be the next one shoved outside and made to search the entire city. This was not the time for them to be fighting amongst each other, not after someone had — allegedly — tried to kill Barney on the freeway. He should've made them all close ranks, but Tool was wary. He believed Barney, even if it did sound somewhat exaggerated.

"Tool," she said, stepping into his line of sight and avoiding eye contact with the team. The last thing she needed was seeing the look on Barney's face and hearing the hypocritical judgmental crap that would follow. "Can we talk?"

 _Thank God._ He nodded but didn't rush forward to pull her in for a bear hug. Tool remembered yesterday morning when she'd nearly tossed him into the floor without hesitating. Upon approach, he eyed her clothes and hair. She looked like a drowned cat, fringe clinging to her face and shirt heavy with rain. "Let's get you a towel first."

"I'm sorry I threatened to go through you," she said, keeping her voice low. She didn't need _their_ approval, just his. Isabelle checked the couch behind him was vacant and moved to sit down, making an effort to rely on instinct and not her vision. The more she turned her head, the more the chance increased she'd have to look at Barney. They were all — excluding Gunnar, who walked in the door just then and chose to lean against the wall — seated on the other two couches or perched on stools, focused on whatever they were talking about amongst themselves. "I don't . . . I've no choice but to leave, if not, he'll . . ."

Tool fetched a towel from the downstairs linen closet and proceeded to drop it on her head. He kept a two foot gap between them and let it sink into his hard head that she was safe and alive. "Where'd Church send you, kid?"

Church. God, she hated that stupid alias of his. It was like he'd decided he was God in the world of mercenaries, deciding who lived and who died. She rubbed the towel over her hair a few times before wrapping it around herself. It was huge and warm, more like a blanket than a towel, and it tickled the hairs on her arms when she adjusted it. Who knew something she'd once taken for granted could feel so damn much like a luxury after years of deprivation.

 _Where?_ Tool wanted to know where. The one thing she'd been dreading talking about since she called him was finally staring her in the face. Isabelle swallowed, clutched the towel against her chest and spoke quietly. "To Gitmo. Put me in isolation for maybe four years. Before that, some other prison."

His breath hitched in his throat and for a moment he swore his heart had stopped. "Isolation?"

She nodded. If he wanted to know, she wasn't going to pretend it had been all fluff and beauty products. Prison had been far worse than her mother had ever let on, than _Tool_ had ever let on. "After two years, he decided my leg was a threat to his men, so it was removed."

For a moment, he saw a flash of something cold and dark in Tool's eyes. If Isabelle had looked up to see his reaction, she would've seen a similar look in his own but harsher. Gunnar crossed his arms over his chest, staring past her and pretended he was paying attention to Barney and the others form their plan. When he pushed off the wall, so he could take a seat on the stool behind the couch, Gunnar reached for his Bowie and unsheathed it. Barney had told him how Lee had punched a hole through Monroe with it. Maybe he'd be allowed to do the same with Church and end their business with the Agency's frontman.

By the sound of it, she'd been put in what had to be one of the deepest darkest holes in Gitmo, undoubtedly a similar cell to what they would've been thrown in if they hadn't finished the Jean Vilain job. At least Drummer was a former soldier who understood the risks, unlike that pencil pushing deadbeat scumbag who would lock them away for doing a job _their_ way.

"Hey Barney, so when does Church get here with the translator?" Gunnar said, remembering what Church had said last week about 'give me a few days and I'll have an elite translator for your team.' "We still need one, don't we?"

"He's not. I told him to back off, that I'd find us a translator on my own. He offered to bring one in but I said Tool could bring in the personnel I need."

He nodded, turning the knife over in his hand and swinging it between his fingers. The look on Barney's face said he didn't care less about a translator, but numbers didn't lie. They were one person short for the covering of Doc's ass. Maggie had prematurely agreed to pair with Galgo, leaving them all wary as to whether he would survive the mission. "We're leaving today, so where's the translator?"

"I made some calls, we'll have one by the time we land in Moscow." What the hell was Gunnar getting at? Barney shot a glare at him before returning to the task at hand. "Maggie says the best place to take Neban is when he's at the philanthropy gig, but it'll be full of people and we can't risk that kind of exposure."

Not that they'd know who Neban was even if they looked him in the eye. With the only pictures of him involving acid burns, assuming the man in the photo was even Amil, he could possibly remove the presumably fake burn scars and blend in with the crowd.

"If we fail, they send in the SEALs and the shit hitting the fan gets noticed by the media. _Nobody_ wants that to happen, especially the government."

 _Fucking government issue dancing monkeys._ Isabelle rolled her eye and tucked her hands under her arms. Maybe it was luck Ross had refused her. Working for the government, for the Agency? If Stonebanks had seen her in this position, he would've told her to shoot her way out and run. Better to live free and struggle than become a paid whore and sell her soul to the highest bidder.

"What were you saying about Church backing off?" Gunnar said, leaning back and resting his elbow on the couch. He stretched his arms and in the process dropped the Bowie knife onto the couch, making sure the handle struck her leg. Her head jerked left and the towel shifted on her shoulder, but there was no verbal response. He yawned and cracked his neck only to see her slide the Bowie knife under the towel. Good, she'd gotten the message loud and clear.

On a mirror mounted facing the only front window, they could all see the blurry reflections of two large black sedans pulling up outside. Barney swore under his breath and stood, bracing himself for the usual bullshit that followed whenever Church showed up to hurry them along.

"Go sit in the back room," Tool said, oblivious to the large Bowie knife now concealed beneath her towel. "Kid, now."

Isabelle stood reluctantly and kept her arms under the towel as she walked. It sounded like car doors slamming shut as she picked up the pace and headed for the back room. There was a false wall in there that hid a smaller room Tool used as his main weapons cache. Just maybe she'd get her hands on a good old Uzi or semiautomatic and have at minimum two chances of taking Church out, if the cars were indeed him and his men.

When she stepped into the back room, her shoulders dropped and all hope left her instantaneously. She closed her eye as one pistol was aimed at her and the barrel of an assault rifle was pressed to her head.

"Drop the towel."

"I don't have a shirt on, _connard_."

"Drop the towel, Leroux."

 **x - x - x**

"Barney, I heard you received my translator. How's she doing? Translated that phone call yet?"

"What phone call?"

Church walked inside, rubbing his neck to try and massage away the tension before it formed. Why did Ross have to make everything so difficult? He'd told him to check his emails regularly between now and takeoff in case any new information was sent, but clearly the twenty-first century still hadn't taken ahold. "You don't check your emails do you? We managed to intercept a phone call. Call it a miracle, but someone called Amil on an unsecured line last night."

"You got the recording?"

"Well, we can either have my — your — translator do the honours, and I believe she's back there, or you could ask Tool what he said. You did call Amil Neban and warn him the team was coming didn't you?"

"Try again, dipshit, Tool's no traitor. Anything can be forged." Forged, timestamps changed, old recordings brought to light and played as new: this was exactly why Barney had pushed for Drummer to become their permanent liaison, to no avail. "He's an Expendable."

"Who called someone on a number we linked to Amil Neban and left a message in French. Come on, Barney, what're the odds?"

 _"Turn around and drop the towel!"_

The gunshot made his bones vibrate and Barney spun on his feet, looking towards the back room. Blood spattered the doorjamb and a moment later, the body of a man in tactical gear hit the floor. _That's just great. Nice going, Gunnar._ It hadn't slipped his attention that Gunnar's hands were empty, along with his knife's sheath.

"Walk," Isabelle ordered, pistol aimed at the remaining man's neck. As he shuffled forward, she lifted her right hand and wiped the blood off that side of her face with the towel, leaving the left coated in a fine mist of spatter. "Call your attack dogs off and leave, or I drop him."

"Nice work, Isabelle. I'm glad you've still got the touch," Church said, giving a slow clap. "But you're out of your depth, and out of practise."

In an instant, her left leg was swept out from under her and she was slammed face first into the floor. A boot struck her tailbone then pressed down, pinning her to the floor. Isabelle gasped for air, the wind had been knocked out of her on impact and now there was a heel digging into her back.

"Thank you, Greg. Now we can all have a civil conversation."

"Gunnar," Barney murmured when he clenched his fist, "get the team in the cars and go to the hangar, or God help me, you can go back to sticking needles in your arm in that shitty apartment of yours. This isn't your fight."

Lee looked to Barney for a sign, anything that said he knew what play they were about to make, and there it was. He jerked his head towards the back of the room and Lee returned it with a nod. There was a reason only Barney had ever dealt with Church: the rest of the team had no patience for scum like him, Lee included. "Doc, grab your partner and let's go, we've got a plane to catch."

* * *

 **A/N:** Guess who's back! I know, it's been four months, but I hope you enjoy. Even though life isn't particularly stable, I'm still working on the fic. Thank you for being so patient.


	6. Chapter 6

She used her left shoulder to take the brunt of the fall and curled her right arm under her chest, still clutching Gunnar's knife with the blade flat against her sternum. Isabelle groaned and flinched as the goon's heel dug into her tailbone; with her head pressed against the cold concrete floor and eye closed, she could focus on surviving the next few minutes. All it'd take was one moment, one second of him lifting his weight and then she'd be free to go for Church himself.

"That won't be necessary, Doc," Church said, waving him off. "Miss Leroux and Barney will meet you at the hangar. The rest of you can leave."

Pushing up against Greg's foot to no avail, she strained to lift her chest high enough to slide her arm free. Trapped under her, the knife was of no use till she could move. Suddenly, the weight shifted off her back and her left arm straightened out. While she got to her knees, Isabelle took in long shuddering gasps of air. _Touch me again_ , she thought, catching Church's gaze, _and I'll rip your heart out._ Isabelle pushed down on her left leg and finally stood upright, choosing to ignore the gun aimed at her head.

What the hell was going on? Tool a traitor? None of this made sense. Not the translator, the target; hell, not even the past twenty-four hours. Lee looked to Barney who only reaffirmed Church's words with a nod. Of course Ross was going to play ball. "Leroux," he said. She turned her head in his direction. "If this bastard tries anything, you have my blessing."

"I'll be there in an hour, Christmas," Barney said. A blessing? What the hell was he — he glanced at Church's face and chuckled under his breath. Lee _did_ have a talent for reading situations. Whatever this translator had done in the past, it was enough to make a lasting impression on the spook. Church was rattled. The fact he'd brought armed goons said he was either wary of them all, paranoid, or someone had threatened his life. Beneath that asshole facade was a man clutching his last hand of cards. "Go, all of you."

"I need to use the men's room first." Gunnar grinned, scratched his butt, and made his way to the lift. Leave when the fun was only just beginning? No, he wanted to see this play out. Besides, it wasn't often someone rocked the boat in Casa Expendable. He brushed a few loose strands of hair out of his eyes when the lift reached the upper level and stepped out, glancing around first to make sure no one was hiding around a corner waiting.

A quick visit to the bathroom later, he started checking cabinets and closets. Tool had to keep a spare knife somewhere, or a sawn-off. There was no question Gunnar could fight with his hands but distance was preferred. Get in close enough to fire a gun and the target was dead, no further action required. It also meant keeping out of arm's reach of Barney.

Downstairs, Lee and the others had taken the opportunity to escape the wrath of Barney. Church still had that fear in his eyes, and Tool was on the verge of killing him if Leroux didn't get to him first.

"Play the recording, will you, Ross? Isabelle will translate, and then you can all get on with the mission I'm paying you to complete," Church said. "And I'll be deducting a million in reparations from your final paycheck."

A million — son of a bitch, her little temper tantrum had just reduced the money for each split by a hundred thousand. He could cover it himself but that wasn't the issue at hand. Barney fished his phone from his pocket and fumbled with the touchscreen, cursing when the email wouldn't immediately appear. Why couldn't people just use tapes? They were portable and all you had to do was push a single button, no skill set or tutorial necessary. After turning the volume up, he hit play.

"Hello?" Gunnar translated as the audio played, coming up behind them. He'd had no luck finding a sawn-off, and those kitchen knives would be anything but useful. "I know you're there, answer the phone."

She jerked in surprise and dropped the Bowie knife on the ground, staring at the floor with her head down and shoulders low. She swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat, hands trembling and heart pounding in response to the shock. What was this, and why did she feel like someone had piled titanic weights on her shoulders? "Don't you know what time it is? What do you want?"

"It doesn't matter. You need to leave. Get out of the country and go, now! The Agency put out a three million dollar bounty on your head. They're sending a team after you. They'll be in the region by tomorrow."

The other voice sounded feminine to Barney, which made no sense when everything they knew about Amil Neban said he was male. Tool's voice he'd recognise anywhere, but this voice — it was a woman's. The softness, the lilt; he wasn't an idiot. The recording continued but Isabelle didn't translate, much to his irritation. Gunnar translated the goodbyes and good lucks then it cut out. He looked to Tool who shook his head and mouthed 'wrong.'

"Did you edit this?" Barney said. "What the hell is it?"

"I removed thirty seconds of pleasantries about wine. It wasn't necessary to the conversation. The fact is your friend here called Amil Neban and tipped him off last night."

"No, he didn't." Gunnar walked over to his bowie and picked it up, wiping it clean with a cloth from his pocket before he sheathed it and moved towards Church, spine rigid and jaw clenched. With his shoulders up, he looked bigger and far more imposing. "You try that shit again, cockroach, and you'll be joining your friends back there. Unless I'm mistaken and I rarely am, that's Belle. She's got a southern French accent, so does the woman in the recording."

"Take a seat, Church, we need to talk," Barney said, never taking his eyes off the spook. The look on Church's face had changed from fear to anger; sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled down his face while he shifted all his focus onto Belle. Seemed the former addict was telling the truth for once if his reaction was anything to go by. Barney tossed the keys to his car to Gunnar and said, "I'll be at the hangar in an hour."

Gunnar caught them and slipped his finger through the key ring. Barney was going to let him drive his car? Well he certainly wasn't about to decline that offer. He walked outside and paused to look back at Isabelle still frozen where she'd been standing since dropping his knife. Everything was wrong with this picture, from Church's involvement to his edited recording and the idea that the CIA could ever slip one past them. "You coming?"

Isabelle nodded once but didn't look up, choosing instead to walk with her head down, following the floor till she reached the front steps where she'd sat this morning. Gunnar had brought out tea, given her space, and revealed that tattoo on his bicep. Everything she knew said these men were meant to be her targets, the ones she should've killed years ago if only for the sake of shutting her boss up and ending his incessant complaining. Instead, here she was about to get in a car with one of them and join the rest onboard their plane.

"Focus on staying alive," Gunnar said, leading her to Barney's car. He climbed in the driver's side and started it up then reached into his pocket, pulled out his flask, and held it out in offer once she was seated. "It's vodka, want some?"

Alcohol would only stop her from thinking straight. If she couldn't think properly, she wouldn't have to remember her promise. This was a bad idea, but who cared, a little liquid courage wouldn't hurt. Isabelle took the flask and uncapped it, cringing at the foul taste of vodka after the first swig. The burning sensation eased after the third swig then she passed it back just as her head began to buzz. This was why she never drank anything harder than wine: it went to her head fast and not even a quarter of a bottle would leave her dancing on the table or jumping off rooftops. "Thank you."

"No problem." They fell into silence once Gunnar pulled the car away from the kerb and started driving. It was probably a bad idea getting their new translator tipsy but he figured she deserved to be cut some slack. The way she'd fought without hesitation was admirable, but dropping her weapon was no good. If that'd been him just a few years ago, when he was addicted to meth and in and out of rehab clinics like they were brothels, he probably would've found himself getting high with the sole purpose of beating Church's face in, possibly even Barney's.

Once they were on a road leading north out of the city, he wound his window up and blasted the AC, trying to cool the car down as quickly as possible. The roof had been hot to the touch before he even got in, and the seatbelt was more a branding iron than a safety precaution. Gunnar leaned back against his seat and shifted gears, riding the car as close to the speed limit as he could maintain. The sooner they arrived, the better; he'd have to tell Lee Barney was going to be later than expected and to delay takeoff.

 **x - x - x**

"What the hell is this about, Church? You put a translator on my team I didn't ask for, you pull out some old recording and make Tool look like a traitor — what message are you trying to send now?"

"I needed to get you alone."

"You could've just asked."

Church snorted. He knew how Ross worked. It was hard to get him alone without cornering him first. Lee was his personal guard dog, and the others always followed suit. "Would you have said yes with your entire team still here?"

"Get to the point."

"You've got two targets: Neban, and the woman he's with. The brunette." Church produced a photo from his pocket and held it out. It was the best surveillance shot they had. The side of Neban's face, and a face-on headshot of the woman accompanying him.

"And who's she?"

"Camilla Stonebanks."

"Stonebanks," Barney repeated. "Is she his wife?"

"Wife lives in a nice house with her borzois. She's his mistress or daughter, we're not sure. No one's ever confirmed if they're biologically related, and the story changes each time it's told. She supplies the weapons, Neban does the deals. That's why I gave you your translator, she can confirm Camilla on sight." He didn't enjoy his job any more than the next handler did. Barney was trouble with a capital t, but when a job came up that required ruthless brutality and emotional detachment, there wasn't a better choice than he and his team. "She's the head that grew when you chopped off the old one, been running the business since Conrad's death."

Barney took the photo and shoved it in the back pocket of his pants. No one needed to know about this little side mission. He glanced at Tool and sighed before following Church outside to his waiting SUV, the words 'Stonebanks' and 'the head that grew' played on repeat in the back of his mind as Barney opened the door.

"You know she'll never go for it."

Perhaps, but she was only necessary for identification. Barney himself could do the killing. She'd also gone and murdered one of his men in cold blood so his sympathies weren't about to be easily preyed upon. "Get it done, Ross. Three months, or you'll be joining her in Gitmo."

It'd be done in two if he had his way. The last thing he needed was for this to be dragged out any longer than necessary. First Russia, then Swaziland, assuming the mission went south. Barney waited till the SUV had pulled away and was halfway down the street before he turned to go inside. It was little wonder he hated the goddamn CIA. They'd been screwing up his life since his service in Nam and all these years later, nothing had changed.

"Keep an eye on her for me, will you?" Tool said, standing in the doorway and blocking Barney's path. "Give this old man some peace of mind, brother."

He had a plane to catch, but his lucky ring was still inside and Barney needed that faux reassurance like Yang needed money. "How many times were you going to ask me before I finally said yes to hiring her?"

"As many as it took." He'd cover the reparations cost, along with any damages to equipment. "You better get going."

"My ring's in there."

"You've got Lee, don't you?"

Barney groaned. Were they really going to play this game? Call it psychosomatic, call it instinct, but that ring had saved their lives a few times. Whenever trouble came calling, it was always at hand. "Tool!"

Tool gave a smile and produced the ring from his shirt pocket. The more Barney kept relying on that thing, the less it would work. "If he's telling the truth, you're going to have a war on your hands, brother."

"I know. I'll be ready for when it starts." There was no ifs or buts about it: Conrad hadn't gone down without a fight and neither would their targets. This was progressively turning into a suicide mission with each minute that passed. Barney made to turn but before he could, Tool shoved something into his hands. "Wh—"

"Hold onto that. You just might need it."

"I can't take it, Tool."

"You can and you will. Now get your ass to Russia and take this bastard down already."

 **x - x - x**

"Where's Barney?" Lee called out as Gunnar pulled into the hangar, Belle on the passenger seat staring out the window looking none too impressed. Perched precariously on top of an oil drum sitting by the plane's ramp, Christmas idly spun a throwing knife on his right index finger. There was nothing that could be done if Barney decided to take his time except wait, and grow impatient.

"He'll be here soon. Church wanted to talk to him, in private." As bad as it sounded in their heads, Gunnar was hoping it'd be information. A tipoff or some confirmed sighting of the target that would allow this mission to be finished in a week.

"He's probably informing Barney of the secondary target," Maggie said, walking down the ramp. She couldn't help but smile at the sight of Gunnar, remembering when he'd saved her that day while Barney flew them straight into a mine. He'd grown somewhat more mature since she'd seen him last, if that was possible. Perhaps it was the hint of a beard, or the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Whatever it was about him that'd changed, it certainly seemed to be for the better.

Lee raised an eyebrow, eyeing Maggie cautiously. Another target? Why all the secrecy, what could possibly be worth the trouble of hiding. "Who's the secondary target?"

"The woman in the photos. She supplies the weapons, Neban sells them. Church hasn't been able to successfully ID her yet."

Gunnar opened the passenger's side door then walked over to the stack of metal containers on the other side of the hangar and grabbed one, carrying it up the ramp. He didn't stop to see if she got out of the car or not, nor look at the car period; after the vodka, the ride had been eerily silent. No pressure to talk or make polite conversation allowed him to relax and concentrate on driving. Now he could focus on loading the containers as fast as possible before Barney arrived. Ammunition, food, clothing: on long missions like this one, they packed everything that was needed and more.

Isabelle gripped the handle on the roof and eased herself down out of the car, shifting her weight to her right leg after each step. Glancing around, she saw the rest of Barney's team seated on a group of couches, heads down and hands busy cleaning their weapons. Good. With them all occupied, she could get some air for a while. She made no effort to acknowledge Lee or Maggie's presence and instead made her way towards the nearest open door.

Out here, away from the city and the humidity, the air was cool on her face and neck. It blew her fringe into her face and made her shirt flap against her stomach, buffeting her with each step. This was what freedom once felt like, she reminded herself, but this — this feeling of relief that she'd been chasing for so many years had finally found her. It was odd but the longer she stood there, feeling the wind gusts threaten to push her backwards, the lighter her shoulders became.

If she could hotwire one of the bikes or cars parked in a line just feet away, then true freedom would be hers for the taking . . . but freedom required money and something told her that her emergency account would've been seized by now. She'd always kept it hidden, but that bus ticket to New Orleans made it necessary to risk exposure. This mission would give her money and opportunities, along with a chance to regain her freedom. There were plenty of connections from the old days no doubt still in business: it only required making a deal with one for her to slip away and go underground.

"If you're thinking about making a break for it, I suggest not. I have orders to stop you if you try."

"I don't believe we've met before, are you one of them?"

Maggie chuckled and shook her head. No, she'd never be a fulltime Expendable. Her job with the Agency was secure and paid well; leaving it would only serve to cut her off and isolate her. "No. My name is Maggie Chan, I work for Church."

Of course she did. Not even here amongst her quasi-enemies could she escape that bastard. Was he going to try and run her life till she died, or just till her usefulness ran out? "And how exactly do you plan on stopping me, Maggie Chan?"

"First I'll break your legs, then your spine, but if that doesn't work, I have permission to shoot you." There was no emotion in Maggie's voice, her flat tone and cold demeanor left no room for suggesting this wasn't anything more than an unfriendly warning. "Church was the one who chose to release you, not me. He didn't see what you did to that spec ops team before you were captured."

"And you did?"

Maggie smiled. "You're only alive because he wanted you to be, but once this mission is over? It's back to —"

Isabelle swung, fist grazing Maggie's cheek. In seconds, she was taken down and stretched out on the ground with a pistol pressed to the back of her head yet again, Chan's knee digging into her tailbone. "When all this is over, I'll be burying you next to them."

"Play nice with the team, Isabelle, otherwise I can't guarantee something won't happen to that ex of yours." Maggie stood, keeping the pistol trained on her while she moved backwards and out of reach before finally turning her back. She retreated inside and boarded the plane, sitting herself in Barney's seat and getting comfortable for the wait.

Isabelle slammed her fist against the concrete and yelled into the ground, Chan's words repeating in her mind. How did they know? That relationship had been kept discreet and below board. Only Stonebanks knew what was truly going on, Tool knew she had a beau, and everyone else assumed they were 'just good friends' as expected. Cam . . . the hell with this, she wasn't going to just sit back and let them threaten her goddamn family. If Chan wanted a fight, she'd give her one, and hopefully kill her in the process.

"What happened to you?" Doc said, walking to his bike. He lifted his leather riding jacket off the seat and tossed it over his shoulder then sat down, watching as she slowly pushed herself up and got to a sitting position. He'd heard the yell and decided to investigate, a precaution in case Barney arrived early. "Leroux, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Clenched fists and gritted teeth, her eyes were ablaze with something he knew all too well: the anger that came from having the carpet ripped out from under you. Maggie'd walked in a minute earlier, and unless there was another reason for Leroux to be on the ground, it was clear the two chose to have words. "I'm Doc, I'll be your partner on the mission."

"Uh-huh."

"Well it's nice to meet you. Not often we get women on the team."

"You too."

"Belle, get off your ass and clean your weapons, unless you don't want any," Gunnar yelled from inside. "Doc, you too."

"Yes, sir," Belle muttered. She got to her feet and looked at Doc. "Your team always like this?"

"Nah, this is one of their nicer days."


	7. Chapter 7

If this was one of their good days, she was loathe to see what a bad day was like. Isabelle walked inside the hangar, grabbed a Kimber and a cleaning kit from the table, and positioned herself at the opposite end of the hangar. She felt safer seated away from the team. With her back against the wall, no one could sneak up on her. Maggie had already proven herself to be a threat — one who was working for Church no less. Who knew what she was capable of, _or_ what else she'd been ordered to do.

Her head was still buzzing from the vodka as she dismantled the Pro Carry II, careful not to lose even the lone bullet that'd been left in the magazine. It was a welcome distraction from the situation at hand. A small part of her felt like she was simply carrying out her normal pre-mission routine. Translator or not, Isabelle's place in Stonebanks' organisation had only ever been guaranteed by her usefulness and commitment.

For the first six months after he said 'yes', she found herself eating and sleeping in the armory, watching and copying how he moved and carried himself. Her nonexistent military experience left her a blank state and Conrad had been intent on not letting the opportunity to correct the flaws he'd perceived in his own training pass by. Isabelle's determination to survive hadn't let her down either; with her mother lost somewhere in the French prison system and her father dead, it'd been Stonebanks or nothing.

Now she was here, and yet again her choices were between survival or eventual death. If her boss were here, he would've told her to do what was necessary. This, living long enough to escape and playing nice till she had a small weapons cache of her own, felt necessary.

The noise they made drew her attention occasionally, but if they took any notice of her they didn't say anything. The seven seemed to get along well enough, unlike her old team. Albeit her interest was purely professional, the group surprised her with how much they were at ease with one another. Was this how a team was meant to be? Peaceful and calm, relaxed and without a single concern as to who the next martyr would be. It was the complete opposite of the dysfunctional chaos she'd once known.

Not one of them had started a fight, or threatened to kill each other before the enemy could in the past twenty minutes. Nice was certainly one way to describe it. Unsettling was another. The all too peaceful atmosphere only served to put her on edge and made her wonder whether there even was a mission. Had Church been telling the truth, or would she find herself facing a firing squad the moment she stepped off the plane?

Whichever was the answer, it wouldn't matter in the end. All roads led to her eventual death. One road — if she were lucky — would lead to Barney Ross's, sprawled on the ground with bullets in his heart. It'd earn a clap on the shoulder from her real boss, maybe even a smile. Isabelle groaned and squeezed the grip of the Kimber, feeling the edges dig into her palm and her sweat dampen the rubber. The gun was a reminder, she told herself, of why she was really here.

This was about her, not Stonebanks, not Ross; the next forty-eight hours could lead to her freedom and if there was a chance to seize it she would. Once the pistol was reassembled, she allowed herself a moment of curiosity and glanced up from her gun to see if they'd finished cleaning their own equipment. Till now, Isabelle had kept her head down and her eyes averted.

A smile tugged at her lips when she saw Gunnar, his hair a mess that poked out in every direction above a bandana. From the side, he looked like a pineapple, and Lee an egg with fur attached. She snorted and tried to muffle the laugh that followed, earning her a querying look from Doc.

"Pineapple head," Isabelle murmured to herself. Her smile grew and she turned away to hide it. It wasn't him she liked, just the ridiculous way his hair had fallen in his attempt to keep it out of his eyes. He'd also handed her that Bowie without batting an eyelid, knowing exactly what she intended to do with it.

With her back to the group, she freed her belt and let her pants sag. Isabelle fed it through the holster then back through the loops of her pants and secured it. The Kimber slid into place then settled heavy against her hip. _It's a start, now you just have to remember how to aim it._

Doc watched her a second longer, wondering what exactly it was that'd made her laugh. It was probably nothing more than the irony of the situation. He would've laughed too knowing Stonebanks had come so close to killing them only to fail thanks to a couple of kids. All that shit he'd preached before choosing money over his team must've gone out the window once he realised rookies were his only option.

Positioned opposite Yang with his now-sharpened blades, the edges honed and metal polished, Doc returned his attention to Lee's complaints about the poor quality of modern kitchen knives, and reassured himself this wouldn't be a suicide mission. Galgo's nonstop talking helped to serve as a distraction, till they all reached the point when not even he could ease the feeling they were wasting time. After another boredom-inducing few minutes passed, Doc boarded the plane without a word but paid no attention to the amorphous shape on one of the canvas seats against the fuselage. He got comfortable, kicked his boots off, and set about the mindnumbing task of being patient.

Barney's continued absence made the wait seem that much longer as time stretched on. None of them needed to be reminded they had to find their target with only a name and a halfassed surveillance photo as a lead. Between going to prison — as per Church's usual threat — or killing the target, the latter was much easier on their bodies.

"Gunnar, you cool?" Lee said, interrupting the silence that'd settled over the hangar after Galgo stopped talking. Jensen was staring off into the distance, eyebrows furrowed and Bowie knife resting in his right hand. Was he tweaking out in front of them, or had he simply zoned out and lost interest in reality?

Then he heard it: the noise was faint, but Lee swore it was the familiar rumble of a hog in the distance. _Finally._ He breathed a sigh of relief and slid off the oil barrel, careful not to tip it over. Once his leg muscles were awake again, Lee walked up the ramp and into the cockpit where Maggie had been seated since her confrontation with Leroux. "Barney's on his way. Let's start flight prep."

Maggie nodded in agreement. Once Lee began reading from the checklist, each item was ticked off one by one and the plane was readied and left to idle while the others boarded. From the sound of their footsteps and voices, she noted they were three men short.

 **x - x - x**

Barney's arrival fifteen minutes later was a welcome one. He parked his bike inside the hangar and made his way up the ramp, wearing somewhat of an exhausted look on his face. He was getting too old for this shit. Everyone knew it, knew he was getting slower and his bones creakier, they just didn't want to say anything.

"We're two short," Barney said, doing a mental headcount as he walked down the aisle. Toll Road was reading, Doc had tossed a space blanket over himself and closed his eyes, and the others were talking amongst themselves and paid no attention to him. "Anyone seen Gunnar?"

"I'm here." The door to the small onboard bathroom opened with a groan and Gunnar squeezed his body through the doorway. He straightened out and gave Barney a look that could be described as irritation. Wasn't a guy allowed to sit on a toilet and scratch his balls for a moment? "Had to take a leak. Are we leaving?"

"Not yet. Where's Leroux?"

Gunnar shrugged. She'd cleaned the Kimber and stayed on her side of the hangar, as far as he knew. If she'd boarded the plane, he hadn't seen her do it. He also wasn't her damn babysitter. No, the joy of that position had been handed to Doc the moment Barney paired them together. "Ask Doc, she's his problem."

"Damn it," Barney groaned into his hand. He turned around and checked all the empty seats again, including the rear seats where they dumped their equipment. "Doc—"

Doc looked up from his seat but didn't say a word. Barney was getting old and it showed. If he couldn't see what was right in front of him, that was a concern.

"—Nevermind." How Barney could miss an extra body laying on a canvas seat up against the fuselage he put down to aging, and routine. Most of the time, the guys sat on their regular seats. Someone laying on the canvas was bound to go unnoticed, given they were amongst the stacks of lockboxes. After a second headcount, he nodded to himself and took up his seat in the cockpit. They were officially a team now: ten people stuck together on a plane, with nothing to do but enjoy each other's company for the next three months.

Gunnar strapped himself in as the plane taxied out to the runway. It shuddered and jolted around them then began picking up speed. He could feel gravity already pulling at his stomach and the air pressure nagging his ears. Once the plane lifted and his ears popped, he stretched his legs out and reached for the Danielle Steele novel on the seat next to him.

They'd refuel in Lisbon, Portugal, Barney announced as they leveled out, with a one hour lay-over organised so they could eat and stretch their legs. Eight hours after that, they'd be in a private hangar on Russian soil and the mission would begin.

Suits and a gown had already been organised, unbeknownst to the team. Maggie had been making preparations of her own too, confirming their tickets for the philanthropy art auction. It seemed this was still how Moscow operated, hiding money in plain sight and dealing arms under the nose of the government.

Three tickets were reserved for Barney and herself, a.k.a Mr and Mrs Westerfeld, a lovely couple from Iowa who ran an import business, and Caesar, a.k.a Mr Okoye, a representative of a private art collector, plus six for their 'bodyguards'. Leroux on the other hand, Maggie and Barney both agreed, had to sink or swim. All those years working for Stonebanks had to amount to some form of advantage so far as the mission went. If not, what was the point in even bringing her along beyond appeasing their CIA overlord?

That big _if_ he'd been stewing on since Church told him Neban would possibly be there was now a big _yes_. For all it was worth, the problems associated with the gig hadn't changed. They couldn't grab him directly, there'd be too many people in play and far too many eyes; and if a single bullet was fired it'd bring Moscow police down on their heads faster than Barney could say 'chyort'.

The first hour passed in the usual way. Books, conversation, failed attempts to both tune Galgo out and shift the conversation away from complaints about the food quality onboard Air Expendable. Yang brought out a deck of cards and Gunnar found the wad of cash in his wallet began to thin. Whether it was poker, craps, or blackjack, he never seemed to have the upper hand.

Toll Road had his books, while Caesar was intent on getting as much sleep as he could before they landed. Barney and Lee kept the plane in the air and the ten of them alive, focused on getting to Moscow and leaving as few bodies in their wake as possible. This wasn't some isolated area of Azmenistan they'd be flying into, it was a city filled with people. A city that wouldn't react kindly to them starting a firefight.

Eventually, they fell into silence. One hour became two, with Doc occasionally glancing over his seat when he woke between naps to check if Sleeping Beauty had moved. At some point she'd rolled onto her back but nothing further. The Kimber pistol she'd chosen was firmly gripped in her right hand and rested on her stomach with the barrel aimed towards the aisle.

It was the smell of coffee that finally woke her, much to Doc's surprise. He'd talked Galgo into singing the Spanish National Anthem, _La Marcha Real_ ; however, after two heartwarming renditions there was no change.

Not even Gunnar's loud obtuse arguing with Yang stirred her. From the way Hale and Lee went to step in once Gunnar stood and slammed the deck of cards down on the top of the seat, Gunnar's aggression had been perceived as somewhat of a threat. Some things, Doc thought, his brothers would never let on about. It seemed Jensen's past behaviour was one of them.

Isabelle let go of the Kimber and grabbed the netting with her right hand to pull herself up into a sitting position. She flinched as her muscles stretched and her bones creaked then swivelled her body around and leaned forward, planting her feet on the floor. Why was it so dark in here, and why was she asleep in the rear storage area? She rubbed her eyes and pushed off the seating, stumbling for a moment till she regained her balace. The plane shook and she grabbed ahold of one of the seats before beginning to make her way down the aisle.

Conrad would tell her what the hell was going on. All the curtains on the windows were closed to block out the light, the row of aisle lights that normally guided her way were off, and she'd fallen asleep amongst the cargo? She rubbed her eye with one hand and kept the other on the seats, feeling her way in the dark till she finally reached the solid metal walls that signalled she was approaching the cockpit.

"Hey boss, we switch planes or something?" Isabelle said, knocking on the door twice before she pulled it open. "Conrad, what the hell am I doing on this piece of—"

"You're finally awake. That's good," Barney said, taking a moment to look over his shoulder. Maggie had vacated her seat a short while earlier after they both agreed the mission would run a lot smoother if they dealt with the issues at hand. He didn't know how exactly he'd tell her, but Stonebanks' death had to come out at some point. "Take a seat, Belle, we need to talk."

"Barney," she said to herself, shaking off the sense she'd just awoken from a coma. From the back, he and Conrad looked alike. Going through the few old photo albums Conrad had chosen to hold onto, she'd sometimes struggled to tell them apart if the photo wasn't clear enough or had been taken on an angle. _I'm on a plane to Russia with the Expendables._ "What do we need to talk about then?"

"I want to clear up a few things before they become issues." They already _were_ issues, Barney just preferred to downplay them and act like that tattoo on her leg wasn't as symbolic as it appeared to be. He didn't need paranoia infesting his mind; looking over his shoulder every day, wondering if she'd pull that gun out and try to shoot him or the rest of his team, wasn't something he needed distracting him from the mission at hand. "It concerns you and me, and your other boss."

"What, are you going to tell me you've suddenly decided to crawl on your knees to him and ask him to take you back?" she said warily. "You shot him in the chest and nearly killed him. Not even I'd forgive that."

"You have two seconds to shut the hell up and start showing me some goddamn respect before I shoot _you_ in the chest," Barney snapped. "Lee, take the controls."

Lee nodded and took over Barney's seat once Ross stood. This wasn't going to go down well. He was calling it now: she'd get angry, probably lash out, maybe even try to kill Barney. Someone would have to step in, unless Barney took her down himself. "Do we have to do this now?" Lee said, giving Barney a look that said 'please stop'. "We're six hours from Lisbon. Can't it wait till we land?"

"Just fly the damn plane."

"Go ahead." She stepped closer to Barney and looked him in the eyes. Respect? Respect was earned in her books, if he hadn't figured that out already from their confrontation in Tool's shop. "I've already lost an eye and a leg, what's a lung or two?"

Jesus Christ. She really had the Stonebanks attitude down pat. Conrad had egged him on that night and only the presence of his team had stopped Barney from caving his head in. Lee's presence seemed to have the same effect, although there was also the matter of her being a girl. Whether conscious of it or not, Barney always seemed to go easier on the women he worked with. "We'll talk by the ramp, now move."

"No. We talk here."

"In private would be better." His tone left no room for argument, but when she proceeded to sit down and stare straight out the window, Barney relented. Fine, they'd do it here. He didn't know how to phrase it. After all, how could you tell someone you'd killed their boss? "Stonebanks—"

"What about him?"

"We ran a mission in Azmenistan. There was this arms dealer. My team . . ." Barney trailed off. Damn it, why couldn't he do this? Was it that small glimmer of hope in her eyes when she mentioned Conrad, or was it that he just didn't want to deal with the nuclear fallout that would follow?

"Conrad Stonebanks is dead, Isabelle," Lee interrupted. There, someone had finally said it. "Barney shot him, then the hotel they were in exploded and it collapsed on top of him. Your boss is minced meat and he's not coming back."

* * *

 **A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to JanusScientes who gave me the nudge I needed to get back on track, and to everyone who reads this fic. I hope you enjoyed. Happy New Year from Australia!


	8. Chapter 8

_Conrad Stonebanks is dead._

His words rattled around in her mind amidst the cacophony of sounds the plane made. Words that soon became yet another layer of background noise to tune out. Isabelle gripped the back of Barney's seat to steady herself before she slumped onto the empty seat, and slowly but surely, the words began to sink in as she stared at the floor.

 _Conrad Stonebanks is dead._

"When were you going to tell me?" she said, "Once I felt a shred of loyalty towards you or once I got so deep there was no way out?"

"When would you have preferred?" Barney retorted. "He's dead. I can't take it back, and even if I could, I wouldn't. Take your time to grieve your boss then move on. We have a mission to complete."

Son of a bitch. Grieve and move on? Of course he expected her to be a soldier, but it wasn't going to work like that. There was no grief in her bones, only pain, and fear. The latter made her wonder what would happen to Camilla, and to his wife. The former merely stared her in the face and said there was nothing left on the outside now.

"You're an asshole," she said, shoving off the seat and standing up. Isabelle squeezed her eye shut to fight back the tears, and bit down hard on her bottom lip to hide the tremble. She blinked and wiped her right eye with her sleeve then walked out of the cockpit and down the aisle towards the rear of the plane. "A murderous asshole, just like him."

Barney chuckled. He didn't want to make light of the situation, but how many times had he been called that before? She'd get over it — eventually. People like her always did. The pain would be vented, and her anger would spill out loud like thunder, but at some point she'd come to focus on the mission. "You know I could've told her myself."

"Eh." Lee shrugged with one shoulder while he continued to fly the plane. Her footsteps echoed off the floor till finally they stopped and all was quiet again. Telling her this late into the mission hadn't been ideal but his actions were necessary. Getting their skeletons out of the closet gave them time to solve whatever issues arose prior to their landing in Moscow. "You were taking too long."

"At least I would've shown a little more tact."

Lee snorted and waved him off. Barney didn't have a tactful bone in his body when it came to women. He gave his opinions and didn't sugarcoat the truth. And when in Maggie's presence, he acted like an oblivious fool if no one gave him a nudge in the right direction. "You think she'll try to kill you later?"

"Nah." He hoped not. It'd reveal her true colours to the team but at the expense of knowing she was a risk to everyone. Barney had had no qualms in cutting Gunnar loose after he went for Yang. It'd only been a quarrel after all, and the realisation of having to decide whether he could trust the Viking or not. This was a lot more than that. "I'll be fine: the entire team's between her and me."

"And Maggie."

Barney nodded. _Maggie too._ If it ever came down to it, to the team divided and Barney forced to take a diversion, he had faith Lee and Maggie would lead them in his absence. He'd already seen what Maggie could do, and how Lee had gathered the team and met him at the hangar that day, Aside from Tool, and Gunnar — not that Barney would ever say it aloud — there was no one he trusted more to keep his brothers alive and breathing than Lee and Maggie.

"I really should—" Barney carded his fingers through his hair and stood "—I should say something to her. It's not every day you tell someone you killed their boss and destroyed what they think was their only chance at a better life."

"Barney Ross, counsellor extraordinaire." Lee watched Barney stand and leave his revolver on the seat. It was a wise idea, considering everything. Give her a chance with a weapon and she'd either take Barney or the plane down. He rolled his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. Barney had tried this with Gunnar before, during his days as a loose cannon meth addict, to no avail. How could he think it would work with someone who was clearheaded and walking on a tightrope?

When she walked past with her hands steepled against her face and her thumbs on her cheeks, Gunnar figured something had been said in the cockpit. Instead of chasing her, however, he stayed seated and returned his attention to his book. Not his problem, he told himself. Unless his name had been mentioned or someone came at him with a knife, Gunnar was staying right the fuck out of whatever messes the others created.

"You really gonna pretend like that isn't happening?" Doc said from his seat. He'd seen Gunnar lift his eyes from his book and show interest, but Jensen still sat on his ass and chose to read. Doc understood partners relied on each other, but he wasn't quite sure either of them were ready for that level of commitment. Too bad the mission overruled that.

"She called him a murderous asshole. You didn't hear? Only one reason she'd call Barney that." There was also the matter of past experience with Casey. Pressing a woman to talk only got them angry at you, or maybe that was just him. They also needed space and time to process, and Gunnar wasn't quite sure being stuck on a plane with eight men and a woman counted as sufficient space.

 **x - x - x**

Isabelle settled onto the canvas seat and wrapped her arms around her knees. Her head rested against her thighs and bile threatened to rise in her throat as her stomach twisted and turned on itself. There was nothing she could she say to herself that would even come close to being comforting, so she didn't speak or make a noise. Isabelle turned her head to face the rear end of the plane and hid the few stray tears that still insisted on dripping onto her bottom lip.

 _He's dead._

What had happened to Camilla and his wife in the past two years? With her locked up, and the team presumably scattered or dead, who'd been running the business in his absence? His wife knew nothing about the illegal side of things, or so she'd been told, and Camilla — Christ, was she okay? Had Camilla been trying to contact her all this time, probably thinking Isabelle was ignoring her, while she sat rotting in a prison cell?

There were too many possibilities in the end, and trying to calculate them in her head would only mess her up further. Isabelle wiped her eye with her shirt and sniffled before she relented and blew her noise with the hem of it. Her hands had already begun to feel clammy, sweat tickled the back of her neck and she just couldn't get as much air as she wanted to. Isabelle coughed against her chest and pulled her knees closer, lacing her fingers together and shuddering as silent sobs began to wrack her body.

 _He's not coming back._

She understood that much. Lee's pointing out the obvious had been unnecessary if not downright cold, and calling him _minced meat_? Was that to plant an image of him being crushed in her mind, or had it been to drill home how much Barney wanted to guarantee Stonebanks' death was permanent? And why Azmenistan of all places, when they'd never even stepped foot in that fucking country. She'd seen it on a map once or twice, however its name was never mentioned beyond it being touted as a politically neutral country that didn't kiss the ass of the US government. Azmenistan was a friendly country, by all accounts, they just didn't like foreign governments trying to boss them around.

"Belle?" Barney said, coming to a stop on the other side of the containers. He didn't want to get too close in case she realised that gun was two feet from her hand, and yet at the same time he wanted to let her know she wasn't the only one in pain. Some things, like killing your former best friend and Marine Corps buddy, lingered in a person's mind and never quite left them.

"Va te faire foutre." _Go fuck yourself._

"I would, but we're on a plane and it'd be a little rude to the team."

She glared at him from her seat. "What do you want, asshole?"

"Mind if I sit?"

"It's your plane, do whatever you like."

God, if Stonebanks could see her now, he would've scolded her for acting like such a temperamental child then sent her to buy him the local newspaper or something. A fifteen minute errand usually allowed for everyone to get some air, cool off, and feign the appearance they weren't constantly toeing the line between cooperation and destruction. It also gave her that freedom she so craved. The wind in her hair and the smell of salt and fresh fish on the breeze never failed to appease her inner turmoil.

Barney stepped over one of the containers and moved to sit at arm's length from her on the seat. The canvas sagged under his weight till he pushed back and let his spine press flat against the fuselage, feet dangling an inch above the floor. "There's nothing I can say that would bring Stonebanks back."

Isabelle rolled her eyes. _You don't say?_ Was he aiming for an apology, or some form of condolence for her loss? She couldn't quite tell and frankly she didn't care. He'd put those bullets in the chest of his own friend, valid reason or not. Conrad had been a lot of things, but a murderous asshole like Barney here wasn't one of them. He never killed more than necessary, and certainly he didn't kill anyone who couldn't defend themselves. No, that side of the business had been the team's job. They were the ones he called when bodies needed to be dropped or disposed of. Killing without remorse was much easier than people thought, if only you learnt the key to success. If you mentally turned someone into a target, treated them as nothing more than a landing pad for a bullet, they became exactly that: a walking target on legs.

Once someone ceased to be seen as a human, murder became that much easier.

"And?"

"I didn't want to kill him, but it was him or me. He went for his gun and I went for mine." Some things you just had to take on faith. Barney wanted to trust his instincts, the ones that said given time she'd turn out to be a decent person, but his history of choosing the right people for the team wasn't a mile long lucky streak. There'd been so many bumps in the road Barney was still trying to figure out why God had decided to grace his life with Lee's presence.

"Intentions don't matter," Isabelle muttered. What counted was actions, regardless of _intent._ Talking of intentions was a way of making excuses after the fact and hiding that someone hadn't thought about the repercussions. She breathed through her mouth, nose clogged and heavy, and edged along the seat to move further away from Barney. What the hell was he even doing? She'd walked away so she _wouldn't_ punch him square in the face but here Ross came as if he wanted to get knocked out. "He's dead anyway. Like you said, he's not coming back."

"What was he to you?"

"He was my boss…" There were a few things Stonebanks was, but it was easier to define what he wasn't. He wasn't a good person, not that anyone tried to pretend otherwise. On the other hand, the family angle was a little _complicated_. "And a portable bank."

"A friend?"

"No." Besides, who made friends with their boss? That only served to complicate things when the time came for someone to be removed from the picture. She'd been warned when she signed that contract that sooner or later a rift would form, and if she could leave her emotions at the door it'd make the job much easier for the both of them. "We had a strictly professional relationship."

"Then why are you crying?"

Because she was sad and horrified, and thanks to him the well of courage inside her had invariably been dimmed, and now all she could feel was dread at the thought of her future. She had nowhere to turn except Tool, nothing but a bloody past and memories to cling to. And because crying was the only thing she could do that _didn't_ involve violence. "Va te faire foutre."

"People die all the time in our line of work. If we don't kill them, they kill us." There was nothing like waking up one day only to learn half your team had been slaughtered while working in some hole in a foreign country. "At some point, you have to accept that."

"I already accepted that when Hammer and Woodsman died." She didn't see the way Barney sat up in surprise, or the look he gave her. If she had, Isabelle might've taken his reaction as a sign of recognition. "I'm allowed to show emotion, but I don't let it interfere with the job."

"Do you keep it light till it's time to get dark too?" Jesus, she almost sounded like an Expendable already, and it'd only been a day. What had Stonebanks been teaching his team, the Expendables way of life sans any acknowledgement it was something he'd figured out alongside his former buddy? Tactics they'd realised would keep them alive in the long term and maybe even stave off PTSD. He didn't want to be one of those Marines who got spooked by a car backfiring, or be woken up in the middle of the night by the humming noise his fridge made.

Ross also never wanted to find himself looking in a mirror wondering what'd happened with his life. At no point in the rest of his life would he sit in a counsellor's office and try to pinpoint when everything had gone wrong, or wind up asleep on a couch with a bottle of bourbon in one hand and his revolver in the other. That kind of future wasn't for him. He'd set ground rules for the team as a way to keep themselves from losing control and peace of mind. Unfortunately, it hadn't worked for all of them.

"Something like that," she said. Had Stonebanks been parroting Ross this entire time? Those words — keep it light, time to get dark — were far too familiar for her liking. Knowing when to ditch the good person facade and start wading through the mud was part of the job, and it seemed that time was drawing closer.

"How good are you with a rifle?"

"Why?"

"The man asked you a question," Doc said from his seat. Hammer, Woodsman; had she met them too? Eight years wasn't that long ago, and he figured they'd died sometime between his capture and before Christmas and the others were hired. He wanted to press her on it, on who she'd met and where, but the timing didn't feel right. "You're part of a team now, remember? We cover each other's backs, that's why."

Isabelle shrugged. With one eye, she had a hard time aiming if the sun was too bright, or the angle wasn't right. "I'm a decent shot, but I prefer knives."

"There's a rifle. It'll be yours till we return to New Orleans."

She frowned and looked at him. A rifle? She already had the Kimber, and Isabelle imagined there were plenty more knives where Gunnar's Bowie had come from. Albeit the small piece of her that was once screaming for blood and revenge had quieted down in the past few minutes, a feeling of emptiness had begun to grow after she heard Lee's words and it needed to be filled with _something._ "Why?"

Doc rolled his eyes. So she was one of those types who questioned every decision, or in the least decisions that concerned themselves. He stood and turned around to lean on the top of his seat. "You want to be running around defenceless? Be my guest. I don't need a partner who's unarmed and likely to get me killed."

"I won't—" Isabelle swore under her breath and lowered her feet to the floor. They had her right where they wanted her, damn it. Barney had nudged her towards acceptance of her current position and the realisation that someone's life now rested in her hands, then left her to discover where she now sat on Church's chessboard. "Thanks for the rifle, Ross."

Barney fetched the wooden case from the container and set it down on the seat next to her. If they were going to get along, he had to trust her starting now, and rely on her. This wasn't blind faith, just common sense. The more he treated her as one of the team, the faster she'd find herself adjusting to their situation. "You're not gonna shoot me with it?"

"Don't tempt me."


	9. Chapter 9

When its wheels touched the runway and the plane jolted, shaking everyone in their seats and rattling their bones, Barney breathed a sigh of relief. They were on solid ground for the first time in hours and it felt _good._ With dirt below their feet, there was no fear of being shot out of the sky nor suddenly losing altitude and finding himself trapped in a nose dive. Barney sighed and leaned across, nudging Lee — dead asleep with a line of drool running down his chin — with the toe of his boot for the second time. Once again there was no response. "Hey! It's time to wake up, Christmas."

"We're refuelling?" Lee mumbled, and rolled onto his side. "Let me sleep, Barney."

"Alright, Santa, enjoy your nap." Barney sighed. Fine. He'd just have to recruit the rest of the team into doing what would normally be a two-man job. He stood and patted Lee's bald sweaty head before stepping out of the cockpit and making his way down the centre aisle.

"Where are we?" Gunnar said with a yawn, stretching in his seat as Barney passed him. He'd been woken by the impact of their landing and subsequently found the overhead and aisle floor strip lights had been turned on. With one hand he pulled himself up to a sitting position and rubbed his eyes with the other while he waited for a response.

Barney shrugged. They were on someone's private and seemingly empty island. How would he know? He'd landed for maintenance purposes. After a couple hours of flying, he wanted to check the engines for any airborne debris or build-up. There was also the small matter of leg cramps and his aching knees and back. Sitting in a chair for hours on end had been fun when he was twenty-nine and getting his pilot license, but now it was becoming the part of the job that only caused him grief. "Some island."

"Oh."

"Well this ain't Moscow, or Portugal," Caesar said, sliding across the curtain of his window. The sky was painted a soft pink and streaked with gold, and past the runway and the grassy knolls was nothing but a wide blue expanse of ocean. "Huh. We really are on some island."

"Caesar, you mind waking Doc up? I want to check the engines and wheels before we take off again. Make sure we haven't hit anything."

Doc lifted his arm and waved the knife in his hand. He was seated toward the rear of the plane and had felt that landing alright. It'd woken him from a deep sleep, disturbed his dream about his third ex-girlfriend, and made him wonder just how often Barney practised his landing skills. "I'm already awake. Just resting my eyes. Why can't Christmas do it?"

"Santa's resting his eyes too."

"Why don't you just ask Galgo then?"

Jesus, if Doc didn't want to do it, all he had to do was say two letters. A simple 'no' would've sufficed. It might've even ended this conversation as fast as it'd begun. "Because I'm asking you. Now are you going to help me or not?"

Oh for crying out loud. Isabelle got to her feet and eased her way past the stack of lockboxes. If it shut him up, she'd get her hands dirty. The less she heard his annoying voice, the better. Barney was worse than Galgo when it came to constantly talking. When he'd finally stopped complaining about the crappy plane _he_ had bought, Isabelle had thought it sweet relief, till Barney began reminiscing about 'the old days' and talking about the 90s as if they'd only happened yesterday.

"I'll help," Belle interrupted, and descended the ramp without another word. Although she had no clue what she was doing, Belle figured Barney would give her instructions or walk her through the process. I need some air anyway, she told herself, as if that could assuage the small fragment of enjoyment she felt at having something to do.

"Good to see my partner's got my back already," Doc said, and angled his grey flat cap down to cover his eyes. "Looks like you got a volunteer, Barney, go on."

Well this was going to be _great_. Barney approached the ramp that led outside and gave Doc the finger as he exited the plane. "Thanks for the support, guys, really means a lot."

"So what're we doing?" Isabelle asked. The cool breeze from the ocean sent a shiver down her spine and raised goosebumps along her arms. The faster they did whatever needed doing, the sooner she could return to the warmth of her blanket pile and the book Toll Road had loaned her.

"Plane's shut down so we're safe enough." He'd hoped it'd be Lee so they could do both sides at once, however Barney would take what help was given. It'd certainly give him a chance to see how well she could function as a member of the team. She'd also have to follow his instructions to the letter and with no room for complaint to boot. "There's an access panel for the storage area on the other side of the plane," Barney continued, "grab the two stepladders out then bring them here. We're checking the engines for debris."

She gave the plane a cautious glance before doing as Barney instructed. The access panel wasn't as obvious as she'd hoped, but Isabelle found it after a minute of staring at the hunk of grey metal. She hauled the two stepladders free from the storage area and carried them around to where Barney stood by one of the engines. "It builds up that fast?"

"If there's an active volcano around, it spews ash clouds into the air. Some of the debris gets carried by the winds. If too much crap gets in there—"

"We crash and die." That explained why she didn't fly often. As reliable as planes were, nature's constant presence could take them down in a heartbeat. Isabelle set up one ladder then the other and waited for Barney to give her some sort of signal.

He gave her a long questioning look before stepping up onto the ladder. Four engines, two people. Lee really should've been out here with them, and Doc too, but the British asshole needed sleep. The other was just being lazy. "How fast can you learn?"

That depended on what she was learning. Isabelle shrugged and gripped Barney's shoulder tight after a moment's hesitation. She got up onto the first rung of the second ladder, then the next rung, and the third, till she was high enough to see over his shoulder. "Fast enough."

"You steady?"

Isabelle glanced down. Realistically, she'd have preferred someone spotting her but the job had to be done and she'd volunteered to do it. "I'm fine."

"Reach in." Barney leaned up against the engine, arm between the blades, and tried to keep his head on an angle so he could see inside it. "Feel behind the blades, get your arm in as far as you can and check for anything you can't see. Something as small as a grain of rice could become a bigger problem later."

"That's all?"

"Yeah. I'll check them afterwards in case you missed anything, but that's all."

She carefully descended the stepladder then carried it across to the second engine. Isabelle swallowed, heart pounding in her chest as she stared at the large blades and put the ladder into position. He wanted her to physically reach into it? Oh yeah, she could totally do this. "The power's off?"

It was a valid question, Barney thought. Anyone would be a little nervous at the prospect of losing a limb when they were doing something as simple as cleaning. "I shut the plane down myself."

She gripped a handle on the side of the plane and carefully stepped onto the bottom rung, taking her time till she was high enough to mimic Barney. Isabelle eased her fingers between the blades first, then her wrist. All too conscious of the cold metal against her skin, she squeezed her eye shut and slid her arm further into the engine.

 _Feel for debris, Belle,_ she told herself, flattening her palm out. She ran her hand side to side, splaying her fingers in an attempt to cover more surface area. It was an odd and terrifying sensation standing there with her entire arm in the engine and her nose almost pressed up against one of the blades. In a horror movie, the plane probably would've started its engines and sucked her right in, or chopped her arm off and left her with only two limbs.

Something touched the pads of her fingers suddenly and caused her to flinch, making the ladder wobble beneath her. "Fuck!" Isabelle gasped out, and started trying to slide the debris towards her. Certain that it was close enough she could see it, Belle grit her teeth and kept on feeling around till she'd run her fingers over almost every surface. "There was some small stuff, but I think I—"

Barney stepped up onto the ladder next to her, one hand on the hem of her pants and the other on the engine. He'd heard her curse, seen the ladder wobble. At least with his weight on the ladder too, he could control its movements and keep her from falling. "I've got you."

This certainly hadn't been in Conrad's training manual. She froze at the feel of his thumb against her back, and the sensation of his skin on hers caused her heart to pound even faster. She wasn't sure how, or why, but the pieces were scraped together by her subconscious and Belle managed to get herself focused on the task at hand. Isabelle lifted herself up on her right foot and stretched her arm further, grunting as she clawed at what felt like ice crystals. After a few seconds, they seemed to come loose and she slid more debris towards herself, then out through the gap between the blades and onto the ground.

He shifted his feet, body facing her, and plunged his arm straight through the gap. Barney was used to maintaining his engines by himself. Unfortunately that didn't sound as normal and detached as it could've in his head when he remembered where his hand was currently located.

"Good job," he said, and withdrew his arm. He let go of her pants and waited till she'd gotten off the ladder before climbing down himself. "Alright, let's do the other two."

* * *

"You seeing what I'm seeing, Caesar?" Toll said, peering out through the gap between the wall and the window curtain. That was just about the strangest thing he'd ever seen, as far as Barney's normal behaviour went. "Well I'll be damned."

Gunnar leaned up and looked over his seat at Toll Road, cocking his head to the side. "What is it?"

"Barney was practically making a move on the new chick."

"Her name's Isabelle, not _new chick_." Gunnar frowned and slumped down in his seat. Well, Barney could do whatever the hell he liked and so could she. There wasn't any law stopping a boss from getting involved with his employees, despite what everyone liked to think. Ethically it was a little grey, but legally they were both consenting adults. "How long till we land in Moscow?"

He was going to need a drink at this rate. A strong one, too. Gunnar reclined his seat back as far as it would go then propped his legs up in the gap between the two seats in front of him. Oh yeah, he groaned and stretched his arms, a good shot of vodka or two to celebrate their landing would do just nicely.

"So how long till we reach Russia?" Gunnar heard her ask as the pair passed the ramp. "Surely we're close?"

For someone who'd been so damn angry before they'd taken off, it seemed like she'd cooled off a bit now. Perhaps it was a sign she was settling in, or as most women did when trapped between a wall and an asshole, she was playing nice for fear of endangering herself. There was also a chance she was trying to get in Barney's good books before she started killing them off, Gunnar supposed.

"Fourteen hours, maybe, not including our layover in Lisbon," Barney said. He set up his stepladder and started checking his engine while she eased herself up one step at a time on her own. It seemed she was as impatient as the rest of them. Lee had complained for a while till finally he fell asleep, and occasionally he'd hear Galgo ask the team 'how long till we get there?'

Jesus. They really were taking their sweet time. Isabelle focused on cleaning out the engine, remembering to lean in and also keep her feet firm and braced. The blades seemed to creak and stir in the wind, moving a few millimetres in either direction. Instead of watching them, she squeezed her eye shut and rested her forehead against the outside of the engine. Everything was going to be okay, Isabelle decided. If she got her arm cut off then it was just meant to be, right? God, or a flying spaghetti monster, or whatever deity people wanted to believe in, had a _plan_ and if she lost a second limb then she would simply have to deal with that.

"You done?" Barney asked, setting his ladder up next to hers. "Leroux?"

She slowly withdrew her arm then shook her hand and rolled her shoulder as if to check her limb was still there. The blades shifted ever so slightly in the wind, and the slight traces of dust clinging to the back of her hand and the grease on her fingers reminded her of what she'd just done. Isabelle didn't want to know if a stronger wind could disturb the engine further, nor if those flat panels of metal were sharp enough to cut through human flesh. "Uh, yes, I think so."

He double-checked the engine then nodded in approval. Ross stepped down off his ladder, collapsed it, and held it out towards her. "Put the ladders back then go grab a seat. I'll wrap up things out here."

". . . Okay."

"You keep this up," Barney said, catching her gaze; she wasn't shaken, he guessed, but there was something resembling unease there, "and I might just have to replace Lee with you."

Was there even an appropriate response for that? Isabelle climbed down, folded her ladder up and took his, packing them both away in the storage area. She stopped just near the side of the ramp and looked out at the ocean, glanced back over her shoulder at Barney as he checked over some other part of the plane, then resumed walking.

They were somewhere in the Pacific, or the Atlantic, and the breeze was teasing at the hairs on her neck. Another shiver spread through her body and Isabelle forced herself to stop at the base of the ramp instead. Just over five days ago, she'd been in a prison; a hellish place that'd driven her inside herself and left her jumping at the slightest shadow. Even now, she—

"Where's Barney?" Maggie asked, blinking away the effects of sleep as she made her way down the ramp. Waking up in a still plane, with Lee asleep and the sun beginning to rise, had disoriented her for a few minutes. Fortunately her confusion had passed and she set about looking for Barney. As far as she could tell, this was an unofficial stop. It hadn't been on the flight plan, nor in the books.

Isabelle gestured over her shoulder towards the front of the plane. She didn't pay Maggie any attention beyond giving her a nonverbal answer, not that Belle cared to do so in the first place. Her heart was also now pounding so hard she thought it would explode, and her hands were trembling by her sides.

Maggie continued her journey past Leroux without so much as a 'thank you' or a nod. There was a message from Church on her phone, telling them to get their asses to Russia as soon as possible. She'd underestimated just how big of a jerk he could be when he was impatient. As glad as she was that he hadn't started threatening them, it was only a matter of time before he complained there weren't enough bodies being dropped.

"Barney?" Maggie called out, ducking under the wing as she walked. "We need to go soon."

"We will. I'm just going to let everyone stretch their legs first, eat breakfast, take a whizz, then we'll leave."

They could do that in-flight couldn't they? "Church says Amil is causing him more problems. We need to deal with him sooner rather than later."

"Fuck off, Church," Barney groaned. Every time Maggie said she had a message from him, or some hint or suggestion as to how they could improve the quality of their performance, it turned out to be some bull that was half threat half harassment. "Whatever," he relented. "We'll go soon."

"Okay." It'd keep Church off their backs for a little while longer. "Barney?"

God, he thought, turning around to face her, what did Church want—

She kissed him on the lips, pulled him close and slid her arms around his neck. It'd been a while since they'd spent a day together and Maggie had been waiting all night for a chance to get him alone. "I missed you."

Barney tugged her close, palming her backside through her pants, and stepped forward another half inch till their noses were almost touching. Oh he'd missed her too alright. Barney murmured something against her lips and reached up with his free hand to trace the curved line of her jaw. Some days it really did dawn on him just how beautiful Maggie was with her soft eyes and that small scar on her lip. And when he thought about it, being this close to her was nothing less than a blessing.

"I missed you too." Lee would laugh if he ever heard Barney talk like this, yet he couldn't pretend as if he truly was an emotionless bastard. Slowly but surely, he'd fallen in love with Maggie and she had a piece of his heart now.

"Think of it this way," Maggie murmured before kissing him again, "the sooner we reach Russia, the sooner you can take a decent shower."

Yeah, he'd already thought of that. Planes were restricted to a certain speed, dependant on the quality and model of their engines, and Barney wasn't flying some high class Airbus. This was a delicate silver piece of shit that could fall out of the sky at any time. "Well if we weren't chasing this guy, our pitstop in Lisbon could be a whole lot longer too."

"Barney!" Lee's voice came from the cockpit. "Hurry it up, will you?"

"Two minutes, Christmas."

"I hope he's still a good kisser for your sake, Maggie," Lee added, "cause he's just like this plane. An old broken rustbucket. Believe me, I've seen everything."

"God, what is wrong with you?" Barney scowled, "Shut up and go back to sleep!"

"I think maybe we should get the children to Russia and back before we pick up this conversation again," Maggie sighed. "Sounds like Christmas is a little grumpy today."

"He's always grumpy."

"I heard that!"


End file.
